On Curiosity

As I feel my mind stagnating in routine and sitting passively during conversations, I find myself wishing I were more curious, more mentally active, able to find new and better ways of doing things and to stir stilted conversation into lively discussions.

We’ve likely all heard the benefits of retaining a child-like curiosity through adulthood: greater mental agility, greater observational and problem-solving skills, greater creativity and productivity, more innovation and dialog, improved health, more satisfaction with life, etc.  It motivates science and leads us down new and useful paths.  As Samuel Johnson wrote, “Curiosity is one of the most permanent and certain characteristics of a vigorous intellect.”

On the other hand, curiosity can also be imprudent in some circumstances.  For example, exploring dangerous places or dangerous materials, especially without caution and safeguards, may not be worth the risk.  (“Curiosity killed the cat,” after all.).  In the same way, exploring people’s secrets unnecessarily or pestering others with unwelcome questions can endanger a relationship, and being curious about evil—and particularly, entertaining thoughts that evil might be good—leads to a skewed view of morality, which becomes manifest in one’s actions.  Curiosity also becomes a problem when it lacks a purpose beyond self-interest.  As author Oliver Goldsmith put it, “A man who leaves home to mend himself and others is a philosopher; but he who goes from country to country, guided by the blind impulse of curiosity, is a vagabond.”

Put those two perspectives together, however, and we must still conclude that curiosity, in moderation, is vital—for an individual’s health and happiness, and for society’s betterment.  The question then becomes, how does one cultivate healthy curiosity?  Of course, the foundation of curiosity is asking questions.  What a simple solution, right?  Just ask more questions.  

Wrong.  An incurious person can’t even conceive the questions they could be asking!  These are the type of people who, if they notice a bridge is in an inconvenient place, they won’t think of asking “why was it built there?” or “what would it take to build a more convenient bridge?”  They stop at thinking, “How annoying.  I wish someone had thought to build over there.”

As if this habit of thinking were not difficult enough to overcome, an incurious person is easily derailed by a challenge.  Their curiosity may surface when they wonder if a translator captured an author’s meaning correctly or how to best remix separated coconut oil, but looking it up right away means they have to stop their activity or go to another room to go do it, and well, that’s just too much to ask.  Later, they tell themselves—but later never comes.  Or if it does, when their initial search turns up nothing—or just as bad, an intimidatingly long text—they decide the answer’s not worth the effort of searching further or reading on.  The same sort of thing happens in conversation when they’re halted by another person’s shyness or standoffishness.  

It would not be surprising if such fruitless (and admittedly half-hearted) efforts reinforce the person’s aversion to making future attempts to satisfy their mild curiosity; so much effort for so little gain, and there are always more pressing questions.  Those, we tell ourselves, we’ll research or ask when we have the need.  ...But will we?

Considering these obstacles, the advice “ask more questions” does little good without first changing the way a person thinks—from passive to active, from accepting what’s in front of them to wondering about what’s not, from a defeatist and timid point of view to an optimistic and persevering point of view.

To my mind, curiosity goes beyond idly trying a new recipe, visiting a museum, or pausing to examine a plant beside the sidewalk—though those actions can temporarily boost one’s overall curiosity, and that’s the sort of thing that most websites seem to recommend as a remedy to indifference and mental sluggishness.  

True curiosity, however, is having an innate, deep, and persistent interest in the things and people around us.  It’s seeing the obvious and immediately really wanting to know what’s not obvious, creating hypotheses and taking steps to test them until the truth can be confirmed.  It’s challenging the norm by wondering if it’s is right and good, and considering what might make it better.  Curiosity draws one beyond one’s usual comfort zone, sure, but its inherent strength renders comfort or complications insignificant in the desire to learn and understand (though we hope one heeds courtesy and caution).

Passion, of course, provides people with a natural curiosity about the object of that passion—and the reverse is also true: showing curiosity (natural or intentional) by exploring and trying to understand something or someone will make it more compelling, which cycles around again to increase one’s curiosity.  Interests naturally vary between individuals, but due to this connection between passion and curious investigation, an honest attempt to examine and contemplate an uninspiring subject or person often has the effect of rendering it less odious.  

Aside from studying (which if forced or fruitless can have the opposite effect of killing curiosity), are there other practical, concrete steps one can take to develop spontaneous interest, passion, and curiosity—to develop an insatiably inquiring mind?  I believe so, but regrettably, it requires an effort to make the first steps and then continuing persistence in the face of the inevitable obstacles until it becomes second-nature.  I’m a long way off from that, but wouldn't it be worth the effort?

First, the common-sense advice: keep stagnation at bay by creating, playing, praying, reading mysteries, breaking routines, building knowledge, bonding with loved ones, looking for the unfamiliar or unexpected in the mundane, and paying attention to “intricacies and sensations” while doing routine tasks.  And of course, maintaining a deep faith naturally inspires a greater interest in and curiosity about people and God’s creation.

In addition, Todd Kashdan, in an article in Experience L!fe, recommends playing 20 questions, acting the tourist in your own town, exploring yourself and revisiting your childhood passions, making new friends, trying something iffy (such as a food you haven’t tried in years but used to hate), engaging in uncertain activities—where the outcome is unknown, such as sports or making up a recipe on the spot, and searching for new ideas and perspectives.  The article makes other suggestions designed not exactly to stimulate curiosity, but to generally engage the mind, such as turning dull tasks into a game, or ameliorating hated tasks by finding three unexpected things in it.  In other words, if you make yourself a challenge, you’ll overcome boredom, and if you look for something notable, you’ll find it.

There’s much more I’d like to explore on this topic—namely, how to conceive good questions, especially in conversation—but I’ll leave you with these ideas to percolate and will address this again in a future post.  

On What's in a Name

What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.

                          —Romeo and Juliet II, ii, 1-2

I wonder—how much does our name affect who we are?  A name carries strong connotations of the person it represents; our identity gets wrapped up in it—whether we identify our inner Selves more with our personal name, our nickname, our family name, or with our title, job, or label.  I wrote a bit about this perception of names in general back in May 2012.  Now I question, as others have done before me, the influence of names on who we become as a person.

Words have power.  We know that praise puffs up and name-calling demoralizes—and that people can start to internalize those labels and view them as part of their self-identities.  Does a common name make a person more likely to grow up to be common, or does a common name motivate people to strive harder and distinguish themselves from the many others who share their name?  Is a person with a unique name more likely to emphasize their uniqueness in adulthood, or does it become a handicap of sorts, making it hard to fit in or figure out who they are or want to be as an individual or in the context of society?  Does a name meaning “brave” make the bearer more likely to be brave, to live up to that name?  Does a name meaning “beloved” make the bearer feel more emotionally secure?

When asked “Who are you?  What kind of person are you?” my first response is often, “Um, I don’t know.  I’m just me.”  After thinking about it, I can list qualities—what I strive to be and how I perceive myself to be in reality, and I could identify myself as a Christian, tutor, pianist, crocheter, wife, aunt... but a short list wouldn’t quite capture who I was and have become, and a longer list would be complicated, full of exceptions and examples and self-corrections.  The most concise way to sum myself up is just to say, “I am Leanna Marie Coon.”  Get to know me, and you’ll see a piece of who I am, and that name will start to take on some of the sense, shape, and form of my reality.

On the Loss of Time

Do you ever look up at the clock and feel shocked by how much time has passed you by? Do you ever wonder how you could have run out of time to see to some important task because of the sly passage of time as you worked on some less meaningful activity?  I’ve found the answer: Time Gnomes.  

As far as I have been able to determine, time gnomes bear no relation to forest or garden gnomes, but they are distant, upper-class cousins to house gnomes, who, as you know, primarily subsist on the human emotion of frustration, which they spur on by such pranks as moving keys and important papers, and stealing socks from the laundry.  Time gnomes, however, feed on a human’s lost time: They create a telepathic link with their victim, whose mind they then infuse with an addictive, mind-numbing paralytic that makes it near impossible to stop a given task or to act on passing thoughts to do something else.  Once in the grip of blank-eyed obsession, the victim enters a kind of temporal stasis, allowing the gnome to partake of the victim’s time until this state is interrupted, at which point the victim stirs from their telepathically-induced stupor and observes that they have lost track of time.

Note: This is merely an artist's depiction of a

gnome since none has ever been seen.

Photo courtesy of pixabay.

Like all gnomes, the temporal variety are skilled at remaining out of human sight, but the result of their feeding is proof enough of their existence.  I, myself, have become their victim more often than I care to admit, especially in the past week.  I’ve noticed lapses while I studied Spanish and while I made long, unsuccessful attempts to write blog posts (which are yet unfinished), also while browsing Facebook, reading a new Kindle book, and watching a dozen episodes of Castle in one sitting (though my attacker made use of human rationalization; since I still managed to crochet while I watched, the time gnome fooled me into thinking I was not in his grip).  

Time-suck attacks may cause the victim to be late, to forget appointments, or to neglect duties, resulting in unwelcome consequences, regret, and self-castigation, but otherwise a time suck has no known side effects. Some people, in fact, find the experience occasionally relaxing. However, such a zoned-out state presents special dangers while driving or using dangerous objects, from mere embarrassment to having missed a turn-off to injury or death from inattention-related accidents. Thus, a time gnome attack must be taken seriously, especially when life and limb are in the balance.

 Time gnomes, being elusive, cannot be combated by lay persons directly.  The best defenses against their insidious attacks are planning one’s day realistically and specifically, ensuring regular interaction with other people, playing lively music, talking to oneself, and using multiple daily alarms on a phone or other device to jolt oneself out of a time gnome’s grip just before important appointments or tasks.  Ideally, one will build up a mental discipline so as to notice when a time gnome begins an attack and then may take steps to remain alert and unaffected.
              Now that you are armed with this knowledge, I wish you good luck. We all need it.

On New Neighbors

In the frontier days, neighbors had no one to rely on but each other, and dangers were numerous.  Most folks with sense made a point of getting to know each other and forming communities that, if not quite tightly-knit, knew each other by face and name, with a few extra particulars thrown in.  Today, we have the police and EMTs a phone call away, and family who are now conveniently accessible by plane, train, and automobile.  I daresay we are no less busy than our forefathers who saw to their work without the time-saving aids of modern conveniences, but we are more private, more self- or family-focused, and the sense of community in most neighborhoods has diminished.  These days, the polite thing seems to be to give neighbors privacy rather than to potentially inconvenience them or embarrass oneself by putting oneself forward to initiate a relationship.  Still, there’s an old-fashioned part of my mind that thinks neighbors ought to know each other, at least to a basic extent.

                Traditionally, and according to most etiquette manuals I’ve found, it’s the task of the existing neighbors to take the initiative to greet the new neighbor.  Naturally, one ought to wait until the hubbub of moving day ends.  A person may then may wave and walk over when the new neighbors are in the yard to briefly offer an introduction, note which house he or she owns, and mention who else is in the household.  Alternately, a more formal or extroverted sort of person might bring a gift up to the front door, often involving food such as bread or cookies; the newbies are probably tired and may not have unpacked much of their kitchen supplies.  Unfortunately, allergies and other dietary restrictions may make that an awkward gift, so some websites brilliantly recommend giving the newcomers a little neighborhood cheat-sheet giving details about mail, waste pick-up, groceries, shopping, churches, and the like.  I would add, since it’s so easy to forget neighbors’ names, that a new neighbor should give the newcomers their name in writing—attached to the gift or on a business card or welcome note.

                But what is one to do when a month or two passes and nobody in the neighborhood comes by to say “welcome”?  Such is the case with us.  I’ve met only one neighbor, whom I’ve seen out frequently to smoke and let her dogs out, and I was the one who stepped toward her and extended my hand.  Through the introduction, I found out that three others live with her in that two-room half of a duplex, but I’ve only waved to those others from afar, and I don’t know their names.  As for the neighbors on all other sides, our lifestyles are such that we see each other come and go from our windows, but we are never outside at the same time or in such a condition as to make a spontaneous introduction natural and welcome. 

                I keep thinking that sometime we should go around to doors to introduce ourselves.  But going without a gift would make me feel awkward and without an excuse for visiting (even though wanting an introduction is an excuse).  Going with food or something else could be awkward in other ways.  And what if they’re not home?  Do we slip a note in the mailbox or try again... and again?  Joel and I had an excuse not to step out while we adjusted furniture and sorted boxes, but now that we’re settled, we’ve fallen into our routines of work and chores, and time goes on as we apply ourselves to personal pursuits.  Self-doubt and shyness provide convenient excuses to closet ourselves away from public eyes, except for walks for one’s health or to the grocery store.  We have a sense that we belong in our yards, our sidewalks, but who are we to trespass and approach the front door of a stranger’s home? 

I feel that greeting the neighbors is a “must” for politeness’s sake, but then I think back on other experiences, when our reception was initially polite, but then the other party didn’t follow up on invitations and showed reluctance to even to wave hello and goodbye on the way between their house and car.  The potential relationship grew ever more distant and awkward, and my desire to make further invitations to them or other strangers dwindles each time they're deflected or forgotten in the nebulous “someday” or the unfulfilled promise of “I’ll let you know.”  Of course, we’ve had experience with truly friendly neighbors, as well, and we have increasing enjoyment in entertaining family and church family and gaming friends . . . but with strangers, even though (or perhaps especially since) they're neighbors, we feel that acute concern of being a nuisance or unwelcome, which makes us draw back from initiating contact.  

“One of these days”—I hope sooner rather than later—I’ll get off my posterior, out of my comfort zone, and go a’calling with Joel.  It's the right thing to do.  But for now, I hide in my sitting room and type, musing about neighborliness that I'm too cowardly and lazy to practice.

On Various Thoughts on a Watery Day

                I watch the steady fall of rain outside our sitting room windows, listening to Hildegard von Bingen and feeling supremely content.  Both windows are lifted open for the entertainment of the cats, there being no wind to speak of to dash water into the house.  I pray the rain is falling just as abundantly—if not more so—on the fields, which need all the help they can get.

                Crocheting projects litter my desk in various states of completion, but I sit in my armchair, my new side table at hand, wondering whether to make a pot of tea.  I’ve been indulging in six cups a day lately: my pot, using two tea bags, makes three cups, and the bags can be reused to make a second pot if I time it right.  I find the second steeping often tastes better than the first.  I bring a little tablespoon measuring cup along to the sitting room so I don’t have to make the trip into the kitchen for my French vanilla creamer when I pour a new mug of tea.  With the assistance of that mild stimulant, I’ve been able to accomplish a number of tasks on my computer—never at the speed I’d prefer, but some progress is better than none.

                Long moments pass as I enjoy the sound of rain and mediate on what more to write, discarding most thoughts—the inevitable, indomitable weeds; my cats’ continuing tension and partial truce with each other; my novel- and memoir-writing dilemmas . . . Thunder interrupts my musings, rumbling with comforting authority.  Katie doesn’t seem to agree with that assessment—she jumps up from under my petting hand and flees the room.  The rain grows heavier, becoming like an ever-moving, sheer white veil over objects in the distance.  I see that our drain pipe near the front steps is clogged; water spills over the top of the gutter rather than pouring out below—one of the many little repairs we’re finding our new house needs. 

                We have a busy weekend with family before us, but for once in a long while, we don’t have to prepare the Sunday School lesson.  Even the church choir music has already been printed and compiled to be given to the pianists Sunday so they may begin practicing for the succeeding week’s first practice.  Thus I find my only obligations are those I’ve imposed on myself—or that God leads me toward—and that is a very lovely feeling, indeed!  I would that everyone gave themselves the luxury of such an enjoyable stay-cation each year.  Alas that it’s not always possible, but forgive me if I allow myself to enjoy this whimsical, wonderful, watery day.

On Aurelius and God

A friend recently posted the following quote on Facebook, which got me thinking:

Aurelius’ theory is laid out rather logically, but a few moments’ consideration reveals some underlying assumptions that cast doubt on his conclusion.

First, virtue or goodness, unless defined by a sole authority, is a moving target; one’s culture, upbringing, and personal perspectives affect what an individual perceives as most “virtuous.”  For example, in a dilemma, is it more virtuous to do what is better for one’s family or for one’s country?  Is it more virtuous to lie to keep the peace or to never lie at all?  Is it more virtuous to tolerate rude people or to encourage them toward more considerate behavior?  Is it ever virtuous to kill to save one or more lives?  Is collaboration virtuous, or is it plagiarism and immoral—or is it amoral?  Is it more virtuous to obey the law or to obey one’s conscience or one’s God?  A person can find many such situations—some small, some large—and the answer will vary according to the individual asked.

Would any decent judge allow the one on trial to define what is good or virtuous?  Of course not!  Would a judge write off a defendant’s crimes if that person did his or her best otherwise?  That wouldn’t be fair!  Humans are masters at justifying all manner of atrocities, from a childish prank to genocide.  Thus, regarding Aurelius’s first premise, presuming there is a God, and presuming that Being is just, won’t that same justice require Him to judge a person as welcome or not according to one unchanging standard—not an individual’s best effort or a fuzzy definition of “a good life”?  

Following this line of thought, still working under the assumption of the existence of a just God or gods, we’re left wondering what Heaven’s unchanging standard is.  The world’s gods and pantheons each have their own, often conflicting, standards for human conduct and virtue.  Obviously, a person can’t follow them all.  Moreover, many faiths state that a person’s eternal welcome depends not on (or not solely on) virtue, but on whether that person welcomed and was devoted to God in his or her mortal life.

Considering all this, it seems clear that Aurelius’ first premise, and thus his conclusion, are unsound, based on assumptions about the character of the gods and Man’s understanding of “virtue.”  Only in a few faiths (e.g. the Greco-Roman pantheon) would Aurelius’ gamble on living a good life pay off in all potential outcomes.  In others faiths, such as Christianity, Judaism, and Islam (and others I don’t know well enough to include with certainty), choosing to live a virtuous life without devotion to God is the same as rejecting God and rejecting eternal safety. 

Since all people must choose to worship something or nothing, I reckon a person gambles a lot if they follow Aurelius’s advice.  After death, should that person discover God is real and just and judges according to faith, that person would fail the test of following Him.  Thus, each person must consider and choose whom to worship (or not) wisely lest God does exist and He someday says to us, “Why did you give up seeking me?  Why did you reject me?  Now I must honor your decision; you are not welcome in Heaven with me.” 

It is daunting to think of examining the world’s many beliefs and forms of unbelief—to determine whether any are plausible, and then whether the most plausible one merits devoting a lifetime to it—devotion based on faith in something no human can prove or disprove (empirically, at least).  Considering the stakes—eternity—surely it’s worth it to keep searching for Truth our whole lives, not being satisfied with simply living "a good life."  And if found, surely one should follow the Truth to the Source and devote oneself to it. 

Of course, my readers know from my previous posts that I believe the Truth to be Jesus Christ.  I continue to examine that faith and compare it with others, but none have persuaded me against Him. The most persuasive argument against Jesus Christ is actually my own selfishness that doesn’t want to submit to any authority but my own will, and that’s a foolishly short-sighed basis for a decision with such potentially dire—or wonderful—consequences that will last for a literal eternity.