One day, in high school, the teacher announced that special guests were on their way. A blind man and woman, husband and wife, would talk to us about their life and how they go about daily activities. Both were born blind. They had not a glimpse of what it was to receive images of surrounding fields, streets, walls, furniture and faces in their brains.

When asked what it was like to be blind, neither one could answer. They could not answer because they could not compare sight to non-sight. For the same reason, not a single student in the classroom could explain sight or understand blindness. We had come to an impasse. We perceive and name our experiences of the world by means of comparison. Something is small as opposed to large, hot as opposed to cold or good as opposed to bad. We must, at the very least, have understanding of one aspect of a thing in order to determine what its opposite means. However, one cannot fully understand what one does not experience.

I understand sight because I can see. I can only ponder what blindness might feel like, and only based on immediate experience. For example, if I hold my hand up so that the palm is facing the horizon, and move my arm about as though I had an eye in my hand to capture what it sees, my brain would not receive an image. That, to me, is blindness. I had to use something in my experience in order to seek understanding. I had this thought while we met with the blind couple, years ago, but I did not speak up. I did not say anything because I realized I was still comparing sight to non-sight, and they knew nothing about sight. I came to a standstill.

The same experiment applies with death. Even more so, since most of us do not have the opportunity to discuss these things with the dead and hear their perspective. When I say, “I am alive”, I am expressing my awareness of being, right now. In every fraction of every instant, I move or shift my body ever so slightly, my organs shift, move, and transform as they go about their business of ensuring my survival and well-being, cells die, and skin sheds. From one fraction of a second to the next, I am not quite what I was before, and though I may have some vague memory of what I did a moment ago, my body is no longer involved in that activity and my senses no longer busy interpreting that moment. Now I am alive, now I am dead. To the extent that I no longer fully inhabit the moment, that, to me, is death. Nothing to fear.

We are like octopuses. Our five known senses are the tentacles that reach out and assess the environment. We touch, feel, and seek to understand. The instant we shift our awareness to a new object, indeed, as we are shifting it, that fraction of existence has died, no longer to be experienced again. Memories are inevitable. They are the archives, the accumulation of information about our experiences, the points of reference that help us determine how well we are doing and what we might choose next.

There is not a “me” in the past who feels dead because I have evolved to the present. That “me” simply is no longer. There is no fear, no questioning, no seeking to return, not anymore than there is a non-eye in my hand feeling lost because it does not see. It cannot feel lost simply because it does not know that it does not exist. Thus, what is our awareness aware of if the moment our body, with all its senses, ceases to live, we do not have awareness of being dead? Do we know we are dead?

I almost drowned when I was a child. I played in a swimming pool with some friends. They all sat on an inflatable mattress on the surface of the water and it was my turn to play shark, swim underneath the mattress and try to dislodge as many of them as I could from below. The excitement of the game made it difficult to keep my breath very long under water, so I promptly sought to come up for air. Somehow, the mattress always moved in the same direction as me, and I could not come out from underneath. I actually felt a sort of “on the edge” moment, a place in time where I had the opportunity to give up, quite fearlessly, or make a decision. I felt the “nothingness” of giving up. It would have been easy. However, as for any other animal, my survival instinct spoke loudly and I chose to swim further, away from the mattress. I gasped for air.

Slainte!

Do we stop feeling responsible toward our children, siblings or friends the moment they are out of sight? Does it matter whether our actions are witnessed and is there any reason to change the manner in which we act depending on who is nearby and who sees us? Quite bluntly, it appears we become sloppy when there is no one to impress. In this sense, though there is no justification for the behavior, the reason may be a variation on basic instincts. It may be a matter of role playing, rank (real or perceived) or power (real or perceived).

In the food service industry, there is so much customers do not see, and would not want to know, from restaurant kitchen staff blowing into a plastic bag to release cheese slices from it to deli employees sitting on the floor to clean food service containers, with food in them, with a dirty rag. Simply put, behind “closed doors” people become sloppy. Interestingly, these behaviors are never hidden from colleagues or even from new employees. There exists an unspoken agreement not to let customers see this. But are not new employees also former customers? Could they not share with the world what goes on behind closed doors?

Sloppiness is not a behavior that starts one hundred yards from one’s home and applies only to strangers. If you tell me I can spit shine a fork or cut corners as long as customers are not watching, you are revealing your lack of respect for fellow human beings and you have lost my trust. End of story. Respect and thoroughness do not require a witness in order to be activated. The goal for any action is not how it will be perceived, what will be perceived and by whom or to do it with the least effort.

This is another distinction we make. Faced with a new task, it is nearly always tempting to ask how to do it with the least effort. Those who ask this question are not bad; they are not lacking in skills, talent or expertise. Often, they are simply overwhelmed. Sloppiness or lack of thoroughness, then, may depend on our perception of the value of our time. It is as though we feel we might lose something or lose the ability for thoroughness in our own affairs if we extend it to everyone and everything all the time.

We equate thoroughness with doing our best for ourselves and a few chosen close friends or family; indeed, we associate it with a distinctive mark of allegiance. This is not true, of course. Some cultures and some groups have known this all along. The Quakers come to mind as a good example of a group (or culture) that consistently embraces a notion of boundless thoroughness. Pouring oneself into a task, whether it be witnessed or not and regardless of who is being served, constitutes one of their most basic life principles.

Must one learn or acquire thoroughness? Is it something we get from our parents? In some instances, at least, thoroughness is a dysfunction. Psychologists and those otherwise interested in human behavior have identified some circumstances where thoroughness is a compulsive behavior. A person may adopt this behavior in an irresistible effort to create order when, for example, they have grown up in a chaotic family. Conversely, one may adopt sloppiness as a form of rebellion.

So perhaps the real issue is not whether we are thorough or sloppy. Rather, it is whether we can be trusted to become thorough when required to do so, and whether we can be trusted consistently. What, then, could be the incentive to adopt thoroughness even when no one is watching? Is personal satisfaction enough? Is not thoroughness a form of self-expression?

As a form of expression, or language, thoroughness is indeed a worthy cause for the person pursuing it. There is a sense of accomplishment and personal fulfillment that exists with the mastery of a language that, in itself, encourages one to practice and perfect it, consistently and invariably.

Slainte!

When my husband and I traveled across the US in our old RV, in 2001, we ended up spending five months in Fredericksburg, Texas. We stayed at a modest campground. Our immediate neighbor was Wal-Mart. We still use the two dinner plates we bought there as a sort of celebration of freedom gift to ourselves. A big, colorful, smiling and silly-looking fish smiles at us from the middle, while smaller ones swim around the rim.

When we reached checkout to pay for these plates, we found a rather long line. Something unusual soon captured our attention. The register operator was a teenage boy. Unlike many “grown ups” at nearby registers, he was not merely nice to the person in front of him; he gave his full attention to everyone in line. He made eye contact, greeted everyone, asked how everyone was doing and if we had planned something pleasant for the weekend. He did so with genuine respect and engaged everyone in light conversation. When a customer had a question he could not answer without causing delay for others in line, he immediately secured assistance from a colleague. Everyone who had approached the line with a frown of discouragement immediately began to smile. This was a tension-free zone.

My husband and I still talk about this young man. I was certain then, and am certain now, that he has had success and advancement at every job he has ever held. I am positive his career path was assured simply because he had already mastered how to present himself and extend respect to others in a position many would consider low and meaningless. This, precisely, is the difference: he surely did not consider his work as a checkout clerk to be meaningless.

There is a sort of distortion in our minds regarding job functions and attitude. Interestingly, this distortion affects all ranges of the job spectrum. An executive may believe to be so “above” everyone that he looses his sensitivity and compassion toward peers, subordinates and clients. Similarly, a checkout clerk may feel so low on the totem pole that she cannot show kindness to the customers whom, it turns out, very directly contribute to putting food on her table each day.

The ability to engage with people at heart level, to disregard rank and job title and only see another human being with fears, talents, concerns, strengths and weaknesses similar to our own, is a precious skill to embrace and develop. No amount of product knowledge can replace this. A customer service clerk who does not know an answer and does not bother to look it up for the client has lost an opportunity to experience the richness of human connection. Not only will the client be turned away feeling worthless and not likely return, but also he is not likely to radiate much appreciation toward the clerk, who will mistakenly assume this confirms how much their job “sucks”.

Conversely, a sales clerk with the presence of mind to take a few extra steps to secure proper information, out of sheer respect for the person before him, also opens the door to a rich experience. The client is put at ease and acknowledged. Her gratitude will be obvious. Both she and the clerk walk away feeling complete. Kindness is a commodity without a price. A best friend can break your heart with harsh words or actions; a stranger in a store can mend it in an instant. In fact, the mending is far more powerful when it comes from a stranger, because though she has no reason to care, she takes the time to do so.

It appears that success is measured not only in rank or salary level; it is measured in kind. One is not truly rich who does not have the ability or willingness to give genuine attention to strangers as much as to friends. Our willingness to be fully present to others does not have to stop or change the moment we step off our property line or the moment we stand behind the counter at work.

Perhaps there is no sense of boundary for those amongst us who can give equal respect and attention to all. When they step off the curb from their homes to go to work each day, they simply feel they are walking to another end of the same property, a place to see new faces, to serve others; a place to walk back from in the evening feeling the sort of exhaustion one feels at the end of a good and fulfilling day. There is no reason not to repeat this the next time and the next day, wherever they go.

Slainte!

This world is quite peculiar. Humans have evolved through centuries, making new rules and developing new beliefs with every action, every encounter, every invention, every project, every dream and every lesson learned along the way. These rules become so matter-of-fact that we forget they sprang from essentially arbitrary decisions.

We adopt a daily routine to meet the demands of our daily commitments. This routine blends in with the pre-existing natural rhythms of the human animal’s existence, such as seeking food when one is hungry, seeking shelter when one is cold and rest when one is tired. The only difference is that we assign specific times to our man made rhythms. During weekdays, we wake at five; exercise, walk, shower and leave for work by seven thirty. We give our time and contribute our skills for eight hours, return home and sit at dinner by six in the evening. We also assign specific dates and times to leisure. The hotel reservation is for the twenty-fifth, we must take the two o’clock train or the guests will arrive at 4:00.

Routine works well for us. It gives us a sense of order, accomplishment and progress. However, as I contemplate returning to a regular work environment after four months on my own time, I also realize the benefits of living life spontaneously. Having the ability to fashion one’s own day somehow feels like, for instance, the dog that suddenly raises his head from the chair, notices sunshine outside the window and chooses to ask for the door instead of staying on the chair. It gives one ownership of one’s actions. Arguably, when we choose a place of work, we also exercise our freedom of choice and ownership of our destiny, but choosing to go play in the sun is not ruled by a sense of obligation. Though, ironically, even with time on our hands to do as we please, we inevitably seek to impose structure and rules to each day and project.               

On my first morning as an unemployed person, I assumed I would be lost without the usual routine and commitment. Instead, I realized, instantly, that the commitment was not me. As days go by and I awaken to the ability to choose each action and project, I feel like a settler in a new land. When people settled in new territory, the needs of the moment determined the actions taken by each individual or family. People joined forces when it was time to build, fix, dig, raise children and crops, fetch water and defend against enemies. Likewise, tools were developed out of the same need to shelter, secure, feed and defend. It was a commitment all right, but of the sort that is very directly linked to one’s instinct.

Some of the most successful business people have retained this innocent sense of commitment. They recognize their skills and the natural inclination to express them in the world. This is how their businesses are born. This is not to say that as an employee one cannot operate from the same sense of self-expression. Rather, we have simply overpowered this ability with our rules about how and where we should work or what we should learn in order to find our places in this world.

When we find ourselves in a work environment that persistently feels as though we simply felt like getting off the chair to go play in the sunlight, then perhaps we have found our true freedom. This is a settlement of the soul. We first arrive in new territory, only to find that all our will and powers naturally pull together to fashion something worthwhile out of each day. Often, in this sort of environment, hard-set rules do not apply. They cannot apply. We make rules when we cannot see beyond obstacles. We make rules when we want to ensure a consistent outcome. When the only goal is to be out in the sun, and when this is truly a shared goal, neither outcome nor means matter, for all there is, and all that is needed, is the will to create the next moment.

Slainte!

Is there a point where it is no longer possible to learn by the seat of your pants? Until 1993, I had never sat at a computer keyboard. In fact, whenever someone suggested I might enjoy computers because I enjoy graphic design, I would very bluntly interject, “There is nothing in the world to match the art one can create with a pencil and paper and count me out, I don’t need technology.” In my mind, at the time, this pronouncement was my only and unshakable truth. Yeah, right!

I eventually gave in, just a bit, only to type a letter. After all, typing a letter would not be an insult to “real” art, and doing it with a computer was not any worse than using a typewriter. Of course, since I had keyboard and screen in front of me, it would not hurt to discover what this “Internet” creature looked like, just out of curiosity. I also agreed to learn how to use email, which I justified by convincing myself that it was an acceptable tool for someone who likes to write.

In a matter of less than a month, I had the computer on before nine AM each day; I had started designing a brochure to accompany my artwork and a website for a church I attended at the time. I was hooked, fascinated and totally inspired. Whatever synapses I had had to develop in the first moments of figuring this out were now multiplying exponentially. I just got it. Every step led to a better, faster understanding of the next step. I was in high extrapolation mode. However, I learned all of this much in the same manner I had learned to play the flute; on my own, by imitation, trial and error, and by associating symbols with results – sections of HTML language in the case of web design and notes in the case of music. For example, to this day, I can place my fingers correctly on my flute to match the notes I see on a page, but I cannot name the notes on the page, nor could I play a note someone names.

When the need arose for me to design a database for my employer, I felt confident I would simply sit in front of my screen, summon my expanded network of synapses into action, click through a few initial frames and figure it out without batting an eyelash. Instead, I stared and blinked in disbelief. I was barely able to understand how to begin. I had no point of reference to build on. This was new, uncharted territory, my brain had lived through at least ten trips around the sun since my first encounter with computers, technology had changed, and my synapses shut down. For the first time in my adult life, I had to take a class. For a solitary person who had lived many years with the illusion that “I can figure this out by myself”, it was embarrassing and demoralizing.

Interestingly, I soon realized I simply needed to begin to learn a new set of symbols and a new technological language for my mind to fire up and, once more, connect the dots at the speed of light. By the time I was done playing with this new technology, five years had gone by and I was in the market for a new job. By then, I knew a lot about desktop publishing, web design, database design, spreadsheets, and web applications. And I knew nothing. As I browsed the many possible job openings I qualified for, I came across lists of programs in which a perfect candidate should be proficient, and I had not a single idea what some of these employers were talking about.

Therefore, it appears that while my own revolutions around the sun last approximately twelve months, man made technology evolves synapses of its own in a matter of days. I am always fascinated by the young people who have their hands in every possible corner of technology and the internet on a daily basis because, frankly, I cannot keep up.

There was a sort of breaking point at the beginning of the twentieth century when everything accelerated, but any one who was not directly involved with this movement evolved a wee bit slower. At least I did. I am a child of the sixties. I am certainly a fast learner, but without keeping a hand in every technology I have ever begun to learn, I fall light years behind every few days I step back. Moreover, the learning curve is more difficult every time. I am like a medieval person who has been preserved in cryogenics for centuries and awakened in the current modern age. I have enough understanding of technology to put two and two together and make sense of the new world around me, but not enough to move along with it without being stunned and confused.

Is this typical of all human beings? Perhaps it is recorded somewhere that, throughout history, humans could only grasp so much within their time until they reached a mute point, a place where the vastness of it all stops one in their tracks. Perhaps this point of transfixed amazement is a necessary step; the one from which new inventions take root or where we realize there is something much greater than we are at play.

Slainte!

We chose to live without television; therefore, I watch Netflix movies or a few television episodes on the computer. Last night, I was in the mood for distraction and something a bit on the instructive side. I watched Cities of the Underworld, on Hulu.

The episode that caught my attention pertained to the undergrounds of Dublin. Since I love Celtic lore, it was an easy choice. The host reminded me a bit of Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, with the same dramatic energy and boyish bewilderment. In the course of about fifty minutes, four or five specialists or scientists were introduced, at different stages of the exploration. The fast-paced atmosphere was rather captivating.

I am not an archeologist or historian, but as a lover of the Celtic people, I have read quite a bit of their history. Some historians and scientists are careful to examine all aspects of their findings before pronouncing with great assurance the reasons for certain types of architecture or artifacts. For a television show, one that seeks to captivate a wide audience and convey the excitement of first hand discovery and exploration, the soundness of theories may not be an immediate concern.

The show examined a fantastic mound located a few miles outside of Dublin. Underneath this structure, which is believed to be man made, a complex network of tunnels and alcoves was carefully fashioned out of monolithic-like stones. As he was climbing down the tunnel and making his way through narrow passageways, the host explained that at the time the mound and tunnels were built, several hundred years before Christ, the entire countryside was under the rule and oppression of the Vikings, who used Dublin for their main entryway, business and slave trade port.

Based on this, said the host, the structure had likely been a refuge, keeping the villagers, who had no doubt built it, safe from Viking invasions. He further explained that it would have required months of effort and all capable hands in the community to accomplish this feat of engineering and architecture, which to this day remains in far greater shape than Stonehenge or the Pyramids, both of which it predates by hundred of years.

Though I love this sort of fantastic historical musing, and know that at least part of it may be accurate, a few questions came to mind. In a land that is consistently occupied by a warrior, pillaging, slave trading culture such as the Vikings, how does a community even begin to build a gigantic mound, and move stones the size of small cars to create tunnels, without being noticed by the very people they seek to elude? These structures were not built overnight, nor were they built without much commotion and the gathering of much equipment, materials and men.

So how does one build such a structure under the watchful eye of the enemy? Why, with the enemy, of course, and for the enemy. Which leads to another question: Were all Vikings enemies? Could they have formed alliances with some communities and enlisted the help of farmers, merchants, artisans as direct contributors to trade and the creation of shelters or underground storage facilities? At the very least, they could have commissioned the work or required it from enslaved workers.

Seen in this light, the magnificence of the structure looses a bit of appeal, but the urgency for building it may be put in a new perspective. Would even what we consider to be a primitive culture attempt so much commotion if the goal were immediate avoidance of an enemy they feared? It seems our survival instinct is designed to seek more immediate and stealth solutions. What of the wrath of the enemy, should he uncover the structure in the midst of construction? Finally, would a program about possible collaboration between peoples we have come to identify as enemies captivate today’s audience?

We hold on to our myths. The entire film industry is built on the retelling of ancient myths. Every movie is merely a variation on the hero theme, the savior theme and the oppressor versus the oppressed theme. Perhaps even historians and archeologists approach every situation with a hint of bias due to deeply engrained myths, in much the same way as we automatically reach for the light switch about three and a half feet up upon entering a room, without thinking. It would not occur to us to reach for it anywhere else.

Likewise, for centuries, it did not occur to us to discard the myth of a flat earth, until someone actually demonstrated that it was round. So could it be that we cannot see past the myths unless we experience another point of view? As advanced as our understanding of history and research tools have become, not one of us currently seeking the truth was present in the moment it unfolded; or we do not remember clearly.

Alternatively, with today’s technology, and for centuries already, it has been possible to build underground or otherwise concealed facilities in perfect secrecy. Since history tends to repeat itself, and since humans tend to think in the same ways, fear in the same ways and want to survive with the same passion, perhaps the most desperate, life-loving, industrious people could have contrived to erect a mountain without raising the least suspicion that something was brewing on the horizon.

Slainte!

She could not face it today. The mere act of lifting her eyes to greet her guest was painful. Somehow, it was always worse at times when questions about her future haunted her the most. Funny, since the pain was about the past - a long, long gone past.

She sat on the veranda when he arrived. He said, in French, “Bonjour Ariel, ça va?” Ariel put down her book. She thought she almost heard herself sigh. Eliot was a recent acquaintance. Someone she had liked immediately. The sigh was certainly not directed at him. No. The pain is what made her sigh. The pain of looking in the eyes of the past.

Every time this happened, Ariel wondered if the other person knew. Could they remember as she did? She had encountered so many of them over the past four years or so. It seemed this ability to recognize them had become more acute with time. To Ariel, it was now second nature. She remembered people from eight hundred years ago and she remembered glimpses of her life then, often while looking in their eyes.

Not long ago, she had walked into a store and crossed paths with a woman in full army fatigues. Ariel did not look at her. She did not want to look, because she was not comfortable with the military, with the idea of killing others in their own countries. She had seen so much oppression over the centuries. She avoided the woman’s gaze in order to avoid feeling angry, or sad. The woman spoke to her. It took Ariel by surprise. She had to look up and ask, “Pardon me?” The woman said, kindly, “I like your Celtic pendant, it is very pretty”.

The flashback occurred in that instant. She knew. She knew she had met this woman before, in a village, centuries ago. Ariel travelled a lot in her former existence. They had crossed paths then also. She wanted to ask the woman who now wore twenty-first century military fatigues, “Why? Do you not remember you were a healer then? I remember you walking through your village with a bundle of plants you had just gathered. You are the one who would not look at me then. People do not feel comfortable in the presence of time shifters. Or perhaps it is because I was a man. Why are you not a healer anymore? Why are you wearing these clothes that are not the essence of who you are?”

Eliot’s impact was gentler. More matter-of-fact. Ariel wondered if he knew. She thought that others, like her, had probably come to understand who and what they were. On the other hand, perhaps for some it did not matter. Eliot was different because he had preserved his profession through the ages, in some fashion. He had been a cloth merchant then. Now, in 2009, he was a jeweler. Ariel had so strayed from her original calling, while living in the current century, that she was not certain who she wanted to be anymore. It seemed she did not have to choose before. Perhaps this is what hurt, more than remembering.

To be continued.  

“Become What You Are” is a thin, very enjoyable and thought provoking book compiling a collection of writings by Alan Watts. Each chapter, or topic, is an observation on the search for one’s true self and on common cultural expectations or beliefs common to our religious or moral teachings.

Interestingly, the book cover features a central circular mirror, but it is scratched and no longer able to render a clear image. One sees only a contour of the face. Imperfections are not revealed; nor are the few traits one might secretly associate with personal beauty.

Alan Watts daringly put down on paper what many of us, seekers of truth and enlightenment, think quietly but dare not speak aloud. In short, his premise is that the very act of seeking enlightenment prevents us from attaining it. All our religions require that we pray or approach the divine in the right way. In spirituality, prayer and meditation are often the same. Our culture has devised perhaps as many as thousands of methods for attaining “Oneness with God”, “Enlightenment” and such.

Countless books have been written on the subject of meditation. Some methods are elaborate, requiring preparation, specific surroundings and a systematic approach the student is strongly encouraged to follow without variation. We take classes, we learn Yoga, deep breathing, walking meditation, all with the intent to achieve a level of peace where all distraction disappears and only being remains, if that.

However, Watts suggests that this is possible only when the seeking after results stops. For all seeking for the proper breathing rhythm, for the proper posture, for the proper inner focus, is, in itself, a distraction.  According to Watts, our culture, in fact, many of our cultures, strives on results. There must be a goal to every endeavor. Indeed, there must be endeavor.

In my own experience as someone who is interested in spiritual growth, I have failed at every attempt to meditate, but I have not failed at meditation, only at the conscious attempt to do so. Every time, I have grown impatient. An inner voice would tentatively nudge me with the notion that it was not necessary to seek to adopt the perfect posture or breathing, that one could attain a meditative state as surely as one falls asleep every night, without striving to do so. In fact, each time we strive to fall asleep, we do not.

The ancient sages and teachers may have approached their spiritual practice with far more ease and levity than we, the result-seekers. There are countless accounts of enlightened masters retreating to the desert for great lengths of time. Whether this is to be taken literally or metaphorically is irrelevant. Retreating from one’s daily concerns and fidgeting, such as in the instant we lay our head down on the pillow, may very well be the point of enlightenment.

The only difference between a novice such as me and individuals who are advanced in the practice of meditation is that this single point of relaxation and void, this “great between” moment at the end of the day’s routine and the threshold of sleep, stretches into timelessness for them. When we retreat to bed at night, we seek not results; we only seek to leave the day behind. This is much like walking a long road to arrive, finally, at a precipice. There is nowhere to go, but for a moment, it does not matter. The view has captured our attention.

Slainte!

As I read some of my blogs, it does not take very long for me to notice a rather prominent pattern. Though at the time I write them I feel I am perfectly at peace and simply writing as an observer, I believe it is fair to say that most express a level of criticism about a situation, social behavior or personal experience. I sat back for a while to contemplate this observation and attempted to formulate a list of possible topics that would not dwell on identifying pros and cons, best practices, fairness or injustice. I found the task nearly impossible.

Language is especially designed to qualify, compare, explain and analyze. Our brains are designed to qualify, compare, explain and analyze. In fact, truly objective observation may no longer exist. A simple statement such as “the pencil is blue” may seem objective, but the fact that I chose to qualify the object by naming its color, as opposed to its shape, demonstrates a subjective selection. The pencil may also be described as round, long, short, or even purple by someone who perceives a slightly different shade of blue.

However, for the sake of momentary abolition of criticism, instead of commenting on a situation to determine and expose what I feel is appropriate about it and what is not, I thought I could perhaps select an object I like and describe what I like about it and why. In order to do this, I must use subjective observations, express preferences or relate to situations I have enjoyed or disliked. In the end, there is no way around some form of criticism. The very choice of one object as opposed to another is an expression of bias.

It is quite interesting how we feel compelled to remark on the events around us. This seems to be our way of stating who we are and that we exist and stand for something. A dog observes a situation, may be on alert for its own safety while there is noise or while others involved show anger or fear, but within moments, it lays its head back down. The show is over, being resumes. There is nothing to comment on or discuss. It was just an outburst; it was not what being is all about. I wonder how my life would look if I were such a peaceful observer, if I were so in tune with being that I could observe all that I observe in the world and not translate it into words

What if we used words only for the essential? What if we used words only to say hungry, thirsty, yes, no, love, like, dislike, cold, hot and so forth, only to express what is felt or needed in the moment. This level of communication, which is very complex in its own right, exists today amongst thousands of creatures. It seems the main difference for us, humans, is that we use one word in addition to these: we say “I”.

“I” is the shortest word in our language, yet it is the most expansive. All our conversations, explanations, observations and exclamations serve as building blocks to set the stage where we tell the world who we are: I am afraid, I am angry, I like this, I do not like that, I think this is right or I think this is wrong. Every time we comment on something, we are in fact saying, “this is what I see, this is what I believe, this is who I am in the midst of this situation and in comparison to others”.

“I” is so expansive that, even without using it, every utterance delivers one message: “This is who I am”. This may be the truth, or it may be someone’s perception of the truth. I may say certain things about how I live and someone who hears me could jump to the conclusion that I am, for instance, a Democrat, simply based on the sort of observations I have made. How we live, the type of car we drive, the way we walk, dress, react, everything about us is an extension of two words and all variations of those two words. The person who speaks or acts is saying, “I am”; the person who observes thinks, “You are”. Even when we are silent, our minds observe everything based on these two words.

I am someone who may or may not have a blue pencil in my hand. While I put these observations into word, my dog slept. Writing this made me stop and just sit here. For a fraction of a second, there was no I.

Slainte!