Honesty
My mom texted me to say that they'd decided to euthanize one of the dogs, and that my brother was sad, and maybe I could call him? This is the dog that follows my mom everywhere, the dog that she greets first, before me, even when I've come many miles to visit. I wanted her to express her own grief. I wanted her honesty.
My sibling called me today, upset about a situation with a friend. They wanted me to validate their choice of how to deal with it, and confirm that they'd done a reasonable thing. I did not think that they had. I could not, I told my own friend, do what my sibling wanted.
During the conversation with my sibling, I felt the pull of my (metaphorical, habituated) oxen and it took much of my attention to avoid saying, "I would have done this! Are you sure you want to cut your friend off like that? Why don't you calm down first and re-asses? No wonder multiple of your friendships have ended suddenly." I knew these were oxen of judgment, but they felt like they were also the oxen of honesty. I was pleased to notice it was not the right time to give them lead. I was pleased to be able to rein them in. But another time, I thought, these honesty oxen might be a thing I would tell my sibling. My observations could help them. a tiny voice: really?
On a walk later, I heard a question: Why couldn't I do what my sibling wanted? Why was it so important to me that my mom tell me she was sad, that she wanted me to call her? What was keeping me from saying, or even noticing that it was an option to simply say: Oh, darling -- how painful!
...
The actual honesty, what honesty actually is: I wanted to be right. I wanted to know about my parent, my sibling. I wanted to guide them and help them experience the things I expected that they were feeling, that I expected they would feel later. I wanted to be wise and in touch and okay with intense feelings. I wanted to direct them towards... what I thought they needed. Being with them in a raw way, to notice their pain and nothing else, to allow them the space to express that pain in whatever way they were feeling it, was an imagined assault on my knowing what to do, on me being good, on me being right or wise or important and then BONK! There it was: a wall right before me, I'd walked right into it, and from the reverberation of this bonk fell out a chunk of ego.
Oof, but it wasn't done reverberating. Over the last week, I've been taking a workshop on teaching online. I have received, over the course of this workshop, many compliments. I noticed that when I heard these compliments, I didn't just hear, "You are good at this!" but rather, "You are better at this than other people!" I recall something my dad said once: "Your house has great decor -- better than M's or Jake's" and I remembered my frustration at him: why couldn't he just stop at the compliment for me, rather than denigrating my siblings' choices? In the context of the workshop compliments, I was curious to notice my addition of "better than". I was interested in this addition I was making. I didn't think it was true that I was not only good, but better and yet... what was it to be good without also being better?
I teach ethics. When I teach ethics, I teach my students that there are objective moral truths -- there are moral statements that are always true, regardless of the time, culture, laws, individuals involved. Enslaving humans was always and is always morally wrong, even when the law said it was ok, even when the culture said it was ok, even when slaveholders said it was ok. One of our difficulties in ethics, I tell them, is that it's very difficult for us to determine whether or not the moral proposition we're considering is one of the always true ones. I tell them this to reassure them (and myself) that morality is not subjective: morality is more than us thinking that something is good because we like it and bad because we don't. This idea, I notice, has been developing some cracks: I am willing to admit to myself, to my students, that context can make a difference. That is, the particular ways in which I meet the ethical standard or am required to meet the ethical standard might depend on who is involved, on what the actual situation is. But even as I notice that, I cling to there still being an objective morally right thing to do, or, when I'm looking closely, morally better or worse things to do. A plurality of better answers if not a single perfect one. One aspect of something's being morally good is for it to be better than another alternative.
But, I reasoned: my dad wasn't making a claim about the moral goodness of my home decor. He was making a claim about his liking it better. My home decor was good (he liked it), but it was not a better than (his liking my home didn't make it better than my siblings' homes). And then: when responding to my sibling, which sort of claim was I making? Oh boy. I had thought that my way of dealing was good, and therefore, better: after initially disavowing that I would have ever dealt with a friendship situation like that, I remembered that I had. I hadn't liked that outcome. I liked my other way. I thought it good, in that I found it...had more pleasant outcomes. (I am struggling here, because I am still entertaining these ideas in a clinging sense). My assumption was that my good way of dealing with friendship in this case was better than my sibling's method. But it occurred to me: my method could be good, without also being better than.
And then the major impact, the impact that expanded until I heard another voice: Are you ready to let go of this, philosopher?
Are no "goods" also "better thans"?
To both of these questions, Am I ready to let go (of this philosophy, of this philosopher ego) and are no goods also better thans: I'm not sure right now. There is some wild flinging about of ideas, sensations, threads happening. Oh, but is it a rich experience.
My sibling called me today, upset about a situation with a friend. They wanted me to validate their choice of how to deal with it, and confirm that they'd done a reasonable thing. I did not think that they had. I could not, I told my own friend, do what my sibling wanted.
During the conversation with my sibling, I felt the pull of my (metaphorical, habituated) oxen and it took much of my attention to avoid saying, "I would have done this! Are you sure you want to cut your friend off like that? Why don't you calm down first and re-asses? No wonder multiple of your friendships have ended suddenly." I knew these were oxen of judgment, but they felt like they were also the oxen of honesty. I was pleased to notice it was not the right time to give them lead. I was pleased to be able to rein them in. But another time, I thought, these honesty oxen might be a thing I would tell my sibling. My observations could help them. a tiny voice: really?
On a walk later, I heard a question: Why couldn't I do what my sibling wanted? Why was it so important to me that my mom tell me she was sad, that she wanted me to call her? What was keeping me from saying, or even noticing that it was an option to simply say: Oh, darling -- how painful!
...
The actual honesty, what honesty actually is: I wanted to be right. I wanted to know about my parent, my sibling. I wanted to guide them and help them experience the things I expected that they were feeling, that I expected they would feel later. I wanted to be wise and in touch and okay with intense feelings. I wanted to direct them towards... what I thought they needed. Being with them in a raw way, to notice their pain and nothing else, to allow them the space to express that pain in whatever way they were feeling it, was an imagined assault on my knowing what to do, on me being good, on me being right or wise or important and then BONK! There it was: a wall right before me, I'd walked right into it, and from the reverberation of this bonk fell out a chunk of ego.
Oof, but it wasn't done reverberating. Over the last week, I've been taking a workshop on teaching online. I have received, over the course of this workshop, many compliments. I noticed that when I heard these compliments, I didn't just hear, "You are good at this!" but rather, "You are better at this than other people!" I recall something my dad said once: "Your house has great decor -- better than M's or Jake's" and I remembered my frustration at him: why couldn't he just stop at the compliment for me, rather than denigrating my siblings' choices? In the context of the workshop compliments, I was curious to notice my addition of "better than". I was interested in this addition I was making. I didn't think it was true that I was not only good, but better and yet... what was it to be good without also being better?
I teach ethics. When I teach ethics, I teach my students that there are objective moral truths -- there are moral statements that are always true, regardless of the time, culture, laws, individuals involved. Enslaving humans was always and is always morally wrong, even when the law said it was ok, even when the culture said it was ok, even when slaveholders said it was ok. One of our difficulties in ethics, I tell them, is that it's very difficult for us to determine whether or not the moral proposition we're considering is one of the always true ones. I tell them this to reassure them (and myself) that morality is not subjective: morality is more than us thinking that something is good because we like it and bad because we don't. This idea, I notice, has been developing some cracks: I am willing to admit to myself, to my students, that context can make a difference. That is, the particular ways in which I meet the ethical standard or am required to meet the ethical standard might depend on who is involved, on what the actual situation is. But even as I notice that, I cling to there still being an objective morally right thing to do, or, when I'm looking closely, morally better or worse things to do. A plurality of better answers if not a single perfect one. One aspect of something's being morally good is for it to be better than another alternative.
But, I reasoned: my dad wasn't making a claim about the moral goodness of my home decor. He was making a claim about his liking it better. My home decor was good (he liked it), but it was not a better than (his liking my home didn't make it better than my siblings' homes). And then: when responding to my sibling, which sort of claim was I making? Oh boy. I had thought that my way of dealing was good, and therefore, better: after initially disavowing that I would have ever dealt with a friendship situation like that, I remembered that I had. I hadn't liked that outcome. I liked my other way. I thought it good, in that I found it...had more pleasant outcomes. (I am struggling here, because I am still entertaining these ideas in a clinging sense). My assumption was that my good way of dealing with friendship in this case was better than my sibling's method. But it occurred to me: my method could be good, without also being better than.
And then the major impact, the impact that expanded until I heard another voice: Are you ready to let go of this, philosopher?
Are no "goods" also "better thans"?
To both of these questions, Am I ready to let go (of this philosophy, of this philosopher ego) and are no goods also better thans: I'm not sure right now. There is some wild flinging about of ideas, sensations, threads happening. Oh, but is it a rich experience.
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