Wolf's Theorem: Show Up, Work Hard, Let Go

By Stuart J. Whitley | Bio

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I’ve been writing about the ethic of aging, which is an internal imperative obligating the transmission of values, ethics and wisdom from one generation to another. Usually, this is a phenomenon that occurs unconsciously, in a way nearly invisible against the tapestry of quotidian life. But now and then, it’s rendered explicit, often in surprisingly casual ways.

An old friend Wolf and I were in a hunting camp one brilliant fall day this September, each of us with our new son-in-law. It was a spot of extraordinary beauty, near the confluence of the Stewart and Yukon Rivers. It was about as close to nowhere as one can get without a GPS fix. It had been a glorious full day, and sitting on the high riverbank at sunset, scotch in hand, it was hard not to think that when God decided to put His hand to world-building and started to assemble his elemental building blocks, the place where he experimented with texture, colour, contrast and sound was near here.

I can’t recall how the subject arose among the four of us, but Wolf opined that there were really just 3 simple rules for good living. That spring, as the retired principal for a school where he’d served for many years, he’d been asked to address the graduating class. Being a thoughtful man, he’d considered carefully what pithy advice he could share with young people on the threshold of their lives, and he came up with an equilateral triangle of accumulated wisdom. Three short, simple rules.

As the setting sun briefly set aflame the golden poplars on the other side of the river, then dimmed, Wolf set out his first rule: show up. Woody Allen had it right, he said—80% of success is simply showing up. If you make a commitment, be there. If you promise something, do it. That’s how we bring the future into being.

The second rule was: work hard. The old chestnut has it right—you get from something what you put into it. There are no shortcuts, and if you skip the math, the answer will invariably be wrong. As my father used to say, “Good enough usually isn’t.”

And the last rule was: let go. There are so many hurts and slights and perceived wrongs during the course of a lifetime that, like barnacles on a ship, they can accumulate to the point where the vessel is seriously off course. To illustrate, Wolf referred us to the last scene in Romeo & Juliet where the Prince, surveying the carnage caused by warring families who would not let go of their view of righteousness and abandon their tragic feud, remarked:

Where be these enemies? Capulet! Montague!

See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate,

That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.

And I for winking at your discords too

Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish'd.

 
This Bard-in-the-bush recital illustrated profoundly for us how the inability to resolve or get beyond past issues leads to unintended consequences, far worse than anything planned or imagined. 

These rules, taken together, will ensure a good life if properly observed.

This started me thinking. I think there are 3 simple rules for good thinking, and 3 equally pithy rules for good temperament. More on that in my next post.

© 2009 Stuart J. Whitley. All rights reserved.

Written by eldering at Wisdom in Action

Tagged with: aging ethics generation good_living rules success wisdom

Harold's Story - Part 3

By Stuart J. Whitley | Bio

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I read somewhere that good decision-making—indeed, good relations—depends upon a virtuous cycle of respect, trust and candour (which takes some time to establish, but which can easily be interrupted). Attitude, after all, is everything. Perhaps that last statement needs a bit of refinement: the ethical attitude is everything. By that I mean the determination of the answer to the age-old question: who is right? Was Harold right to express his annoyance with conduct he perceived as racist and excessive, in coarse language? Was the police officer right to arrest Harold in his perceived perception that Harold was instigating a threat to the public peace? Was the security guard right to expel the children from his shop and continue to press for their departure from the vicinity? We don’t have enough facts, a lawyer might argue. In a courtroom, various perspectives and motives would be put in play, with neither party being satisfied by the result. Forensic justice cannot answer competing claims for rightness in a manner satisfying for everyone. But here, I stand with Harold.

We react to moral decisions at a deeply emotional level. Goodness makes us glad; we recoil from evil. Very early on, religious teachings identified good and bad as beauty and ugliness, light and darkness. ‘Fairness’ has two meanings, one of which connotes beauty. Fairness as a generalized principle of equity took some time to be formally incorporated into the narrow arteries of justice, and in the minds of many, they are—or should —be the same thing.

What stands in the way of an ethical attitude is the lack of clarity about judgement and the allocation of moral choices, which is to say, what we ought to do in any given situation. Each of us is driven by what we feel  to be right, based on the way in which our life experience has conditioned us to think. (I use the emotive word ‘feel’ here deliberately, for moral choices are a complex of rational and emotional processes of evaluation, with the emotions being dominant—after all, such choices go to the very root of who we are as human personalities.) We are introduced to a moral universe in which certain assumptions are instilled into us before we achieve personhood. Some actions are bad regardless of motivation. If a man abandons his family, it is a bad thing. But a mature mind, a loving state of being, would seek the circumstances: would mental illness in the offender make a difference? Of course. An infantile sense of justice allocates blame in the result, regardless of circumstances. Arrogance has a blinding potency. Unfortunately, this leads in some cases to the lawyer’s ephemeral answer to a request for an opinion: “It depends.” What I am trying to get at here is the need for a discipline of discernment, the refinement of our capacity to see what is essential in any set of circumstances, and from the other’s point of view. Thinking critically is essential to finding the true course. That doesn’t always come with age and experience—but it usually does. Somewhere at the root of our humanity, almost at a cellular level, there is a duty to share that wisdom.

I want to do the right thing
I have always wanted to do the right thing
but absolutes are for children
whose sense of justice is exaggerated
and the world is nicely managed
by simple allocations of good and bad
but the starting point for decisions
and in particular the nettlesome matter
of what to do about mistakes, or
that which readily inspires fear in us,
is not reductio ad simpliciter
but a recognition of a moral stance
—one of empathy—which recognizes that
not everything is always as it seems

everything beyond that, the whole rich palette
of emphases, principles, values and possibilities
that could have been imagined in the love of you,
especially in its spiritual dimension,
can be grasped and explained only
as a consequence of this essential quality

I want to do the right thing. I do.
what that will be, in any given situation,
from now on until the end of days, will
try to comprehend the wonder that is you

© 2009 Stuart J. Whitley. All rights reserved.

Written by eldering at Wisdom in Action

Tagged with: age candour decision-making ethical_attitude experience judgement justice moral_choice respect trust wisdom

Harold's Story - Part 2

By Stuart J. Whitley | Bio

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Einstein is supposed to have said that the most important decision we ever make is whether the world is a good place or a bad place. I don’t believe that we consciously make that decision—we are taught to believe it, one way or the other, and the most difficult lesson of all to unlearn is that we live in a hostile universe. There are just too many confirmatory events that tend to erode our courage to think differently.

Current strategies in intellectual discourse talk about how we ‘tell the truth’ about others and ourselves. Postmodern social theory considers that this is the changing terrain of politics, literature and other intellectual work that addresses the way in which power is exercised and made visible. It is to conform to a ‘habit of truth’, which means information-seeking and the vigorous constructive questioning that ensures the chosen course is the right one. It calls for close inquiry, of course. But it also demands that we consider other perspectives: there is an obligation in human relations that we be open to be persuaded. In a rational age, a time when science and the scientific method are supreme, we have become addicted to certainty. Some of the polemics of the late last century (and this one, for that matter) suggest that disputants on either side of an issue have been imbued with near divinely-inspired truth, and that hasn’t always necessarily been a good thing. Conservatism, liberalism, feminism, capitalism and self-determination are examples of this. One need not consider more virulent debates around religious subjects to find further examples of minds made up in advance.

I am not calling for a less rigorous approach to the manner of our discussions among ourselves about matters that concern us. In addition to the challenge of stepping outside our biases (which is no small task), I believe it’s helpful to articulate a rational framework for thinking about how we deliberate over problems. Several questions come to mind:

1.    Can we fix it? Make the problem big enough or the objective sufficiently abstract, and solutions will evade us (in other words, we have already decided that this problem cannot be solved). How can we usefully define it so as to make it manageable, and what are the obvious sources of information that we need to explore to move toward some sensible conclusions? Is what we are thinking about a move forward, or a step back?

2.    Is it complex, or is it really a simple issue at root? Can we find consensus on that which needs to be done, or at least, on some strategies to address critical parts of the problem?

3.    Are solutions matters of scale? Can the problem be solved in one fell swoop, or in a single (corrective) measure? Or are incremental steps needed?

4.    Can the problem be coherently fractioned? This provides the greatest opportunity for collaboration. Unfortunately, it also provides an excuse for sloughing off the larger pieces elsewhere. Breaking up the issue makes it more manageable, and helps identify key players. But it also enables avoidance of responsibility for resolving the larger issue.

5.    Does the best solution depend upon interdependent cooperation?  In almost all situations, the answer is ‘yes’. From a purely legal perspective, as I am prone to take, it is true that legislation, litigation and enforcement have their roles. However, we know by now that these are not necessarily the best solutions.

6.    What will it cost? Money always follows a good idea. But like business, governments and other sources of funds are from Missouri—they need to be shown. Quite often, this means the demise of the proposed solution. So it is important to be realistic on the one hand, but at the same time demonstrate creativity in the presentation of solutions. Where’s the business case, yes, but where’s the vision?

7.    Does it feel right? This is not the proverbial ‘gut reaction’, rather it’s how I’m terming the need for conscience. We get this by experience, of course, but also by meaningful consultation. As a legally trained person, I’ve often felt that non-lawyers serve a valuable role in the selection of legal alternatives, because they act as the conscience of the group (if I can put it that way). By this I mean the need to question the hypothesis (or the experiment) by its consequences in discourse, not simply viewed through a legal lens. Sometimes I think we need to remember that interdependence is the spring within the movement of our civilization. We explore and move constantly to ask: is this so? Why? This is the moral component to discourse.

These points go to an attempt to put some sort of sensible framework around problem resolution. Thinking about things in a careful, rational way, has the additional benefit of taking up the space that emotion would otherwise occupy.

More tomorrow... 

 

Written by eldering at Wisdom in Action

Tagged with: collaboration courage decision einstein power problem_resolution truth

Harold's Story - Part 1

By Stuart J. Whitley | Bio

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I had lunch with an old friend, a Tlingit elder, Harold, today. I’ve known Harold for nearly a dozen years. And I know him to be a serious, thoughtful man; he’s someone who has taught me many things, not the least of which was the powerful consequence of even the smallest positive intervention in someone’s life. I have seen it in action: Harold is the embodiment of Emerson’s dictum that it is one of the most beautiful compensations of this life that no man can sincerely try to help another without helping himself…. “Serve and thou shall be served.” Harold helped me, a lawyer once upon a time, see love in a loveless system.

During the hour, he related to me a personal story. He and his brother had spent a week working with the RCMP on race relations and cross-cultural understanding—by all accounts a successful few days. The following week, strolling through a department store, he noticed a security officer scolding some aboriginal kids, but passed by. Shortly thereafter, he saw them all outside, the security man still berating the kids, but in language Harold felt was racist. He stopped and spoke to the youngsters, telling them that inside the store was a private matter, but they were entitled to their use of the sidewalk. He returned to his car. Then he saw two police cars pull up quickly, and he thought he had better return. “I know how these things escalate in the minds of young people,” he said. “Then they’re angry, it escalates, and they end up going down a road no one ever imagined. I’ve seen it all before; I’ve been there.” As he approached, he heard the security guard make some startling accusations, as well as barking at Harold that this matter was none of his concern. Harold replied that as long as he felt there was unfair, racist “bullshit” going on, he would always be concerned.

He was suddenly seized by the elbow by one of the officers who had just arrived. Harold jerked his arm away. This time two officers grabbed him: “You’re under arrest for causing a disturbance.” In spite of his protest, he was taken forcefully to the cruiser and locked inside. The young people went on their way. Around the block, the cruiser stopped. Harold asked why they were stopping. “To check something,” was the reply. Harold became concerned and angry; he demanded to be taken to the police station and charged. The officer said that he’d decided to give Harold “a break and let him go.” Furious, Harold went straight to the police station on foot and asked to see the officer in charge: he wanted to make a formal complaint. After waiting for a time, an officer appeared at the wicket to ask Harold what he wanted. It was the same officer who several minutes earlier had locked Harold in a cruiser car. Harold was sad as he related this, saying only: “We had just finished a week of talking about these issues, and without losing a beat, here was this guy making assumptions about me as just another goddammed Indian. I’m starting to feel that we’ve gained no ground at all.”

His story (which I’ve considerably shortened here) reminded me that we constantly relate to one another on the basis of our assumptions about who the other is. Jim Selman, another thoughtful friend who devotes much of his time contemplating these things, goes further, calling them ‘assessments’, often made in advance. Our assessments are neither true nor false, he says, they are merely judgements arrived at on the basis of what we think we’ve heard or seen—we fail to make a distinction between truth and those assessments. He considers that frequently our relationships are not truly authentic, but merely an exchange of assessments (often I would say a half-cooked porridge of gossip, half-truths, impressions, preferences or biases, and one’s own needs) in which the inner person is seldom discernible. A racist, for example, will never see the real person in front of him: he will only see a caricature of a human being for whom he has certain specific and predictable expectations. He will only “see” what tends to confirm his assumptions. If we stereotype in our relations, others will always present to us already distorted by our bigotry. We deny that the other person has wisdom. Somewhere in my life as a lawyer, I learned that counsel’s special gift is to see the insides of things: we see the world as a series of transparencies which, when laid one over the other, form an image of the truth. We see inner structures, processes, histories, aspirations and values; instruments not always visible to the quotidian eye. But that is as nothing, if we are incapable of turning that eye inward.

Written by eldering at Wisdom in Action

Tagged with: assessments bigotry elder judgements love race_relations racist service tlingit

Toward An Ethic of Aging III

By Stuart J Whitley | Bio

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In my last post I wondered about whether or not there was an ethic of aging. Again, by ‘ethics’ I mean simply some general consensus or agreement about what is good about the way we relate to one another. This is a group or communal expression of belief, rather than an individual or moral outlook. The distinction is thus simply drawn between morals and ethics, terms which are often interposed. I should be more explicit and ask whether there is a reasonable consensus around obligations associated with the process of aging. One needs to be clear about such things because there are many ethical issues relating to this subject: the diminishment of worth of old people and their relegation to institutional repositories, the abuse of the elderly, the genetic or pharmaceutical tinkering with the aging process, and so on.

What I’m talking about is whether ethical obligations arise as one draws toward and enters the last quarter of one’s natural life. A duty, perhaps. It is necessary to consider the nature of ‘duty’, to whom it is owed, its relationship with responsibility, and moral decision-making (and the nature of compromise and courage and blame as dimensions of this discussion). The very idea of duty has a quaint ring to it these days; sometimes that is the best that may be said for it. After all, concentration camps abound more than one hundred years after the Boer War (during which they were introduced as a weapon against civilians who might offer succour to the enemy), where internees were encamped in brutal conditions by those who later asserted that they were only doing their duty. The debasement of the term in this way has diminished its currency. The call to one’s countryman to ‘do one’s duty’ can be seen in both positive and derogatory terms. What is one’s ‘duty’? This will almost always be contextual.

The Oxford definition of ‘duty’ is a moral or legal obligation to which one is bound or ought to do. This would be something to which one is committed or obedient to because of the rightness of the thing moving within oneself as a binding force.

In “The Duties of a Citizen (Larchwood, Ontario, 1913)” cited by John Ralston Saul in Reflections of a Siamese Twin (1997), the Duties of a Citizen as a lesson for recent immigrants were expressed as follows:

•    Understand our government
•    Take active part in politics
•    Assist all good causes
•    Lessen intemperance
•    Work for others.

Saul describes this as a participatory obligation in a process that is democratic and cooperative. As character is developed by experience, it follows that a richer contribution could be made by someone who has lived long. As the social welfare state has a duty to care for the elderly as they become frail, so one might argue that there is a concomitant obligation on the part of seniors to invest their accumulated wisdom in the transmission of values and knowledge to the subsequent generation.

In the context of Biblical tradition, elders were required to perform several functions as a matter of duty. They resolved disputes, drawing on their acquired knowledge and skills. They attended to the sick. "Is any sick among you? Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil …” (James 5:14). Elders in the religious community were role models for righteous behaviour: they are to watch out for the church in humility. "I exhort the elders who are among you, I being also an elder and a witness of the sufferings of Christ, and also a partaker of the glory that shall be revealed. Feed the flock of God among you, taking the oversight, not by compulsion, but willingly; nor for base gain, but readily; nor as lording it over those allotted to you by God, but becoming examples to the flock.” (1 Peter 5:1-4). Elders are the designated leaders of the church who act not for pay or reward but because of their perceived duty to serve. Clearly, the role of the aged in leading, as a matter of moral duty, the vertical process of cultural continuity is an ancient one.



There was a contemplative and teaching role, which reflected the accumulation of wisdom borne of an exemplary life. Eldering was a position to be sought but not taken lightly: "Let not many of you become teachers, my brethren, for you know that we who teach shall be judged with greater strictness" (James 3:1). The role of elder was one to be taken very seriously, which inherently assumes a moral content, a duty, if not a sacred trust.

Of course, cultures that prized elders and their contributions were aboriginal. The skills and knowledge essential for survival had to be transmitted from one generation to another, and for understanding of the ways of the world—especially the inexplicable events that beset humans—elders had an obligation to explain, lead and inspire. While wisdom is not necessarily the sole purview of the grey beard, nevertheless, with age and experience comes the weight of authenticity. Examples abound: when Ahtahkakoop, notable Chief of the Plains Cree, was asked toward the end of his life about the decisions he had taken during the transition from hunter to farmer under increasingly repressive policies of the Canadian government, he said that decisions must have the long view: “Let us not think of ourselves but of our children’s children. Let us show our wisdom by choosing the right path now, while we yet have a choice.”

The plains Indians had a concept that generally captures the idea of ‘duty’ as a reciprocal obligation: it is the idea of wechewehtowin, which loosely means ‘partnership’ in Cree. There is a distinction between wisdom and knowledge, meaning that everything is one as created by the Great Spirit, and has four aspects: mind, body, emotion, and spirit. Ancient wisdom is learnt from experience and taught by wise old people; it has equity with other knowledge systems. Wisdom lies mainly in the acquiring, sharing and application of knowledge. Through use of the Cree concept of ‘partnership’, it has been argued that both Aboriginal wisdom and western scientific knowledge could be accommodated, and one way to approach it was to view it as a puzzle whereby each knowledge system supplied certain pieces (see WIDENING THE CIRCLE, Newsletter of the Native Mental Health Research Team, Volume 2, Issue 2 Winter1999).

I do think there is at least a vestigial obligation in elders, regardless of culture, to impart wisdom. In a democracy, this may be taken as a given, for a democracy without participation cannot sustain itself, and informed participation makes for a richer discourse.

 

Written by eldering at Wisdom in Action

Tagged with: aboriginal aging cree duty elder elder_abuse eldering knowledge wisdom