Try to Remain Permanently Confused

The older I get, the more I need to be oiled.

I am constantly focused on getting enough healthy fats and oils in my diet, the olive oils and nuts and avocadoes and similar. I have generally low cholesterol, and I struggle to keep my "good cholesterol" high enough. So I've learned to embrace the oils in my food.

For a few months now I've been keeping a short, groomed beard. Which has led to my learning that beard oil is a useful thing to keep the hairs conditioned and soft. I add a few drops most days, and my hands appreciate being part of the treatment.

I struggled with acne as a teen and my skin and hair have always tended toward greasiness. I was worried putting oil on my beard would mean an oily face, but it hasn't happened. I've finally aged enough that I'm starting to dry out, and I can finally appreciate being oiled.

Another isolated, random thought on aging without much context:

It has taken me a very long time to understand that hunger, acid (reflux), and anxiety all feel the same to me, and I still have trouble figuring out which one I'm experiencing so I can have the proper response.

I think one of the reasons I've struggled to control my weight most of my life is because I instinctively eat in response to all three.

That, unfortunately, is about the extent of my original content today. I've been keeping busy at work and with life, anxious about the state of the world, and going through a minor wintering phase, so the time and energy for creation has been limited. I have, however, done much reading and thinking. The things I've found especially resonant and important follow.

Of the children's book Bad Badger: A Love Story by Maryrose Wood:

Why did so much in life depend on who ate whom? It made the simplest things, like friendship, so tragically complicated.

This is a gentle, nuanced, compelling story about love: love of self, love of friends, love of difference. About identity, about the categories that do and don't define us, and about how to get along with yourself and others. It's both cozy and complex, as a very unusual badger who enjoys the quiet, comfortable, polite life he has made for himself finds himself challenged to expand his comfort zone--to explore, adventure, and try new things--in an attempt to answer his nagging questions and learn how to get along with others. The book is inviting, accessible, and just silly enough to be fun while remaining contemplative. It's lovely.

Perhaps friendship was like that. Perhaps a never-ending parade of misunderstandings was to be expected. Perhaps there was always a sense of mystery about the ones we care for, no matter how fond we are, or how well we imagine we know them.

I am in love with the meditation on the word "belief" in the book Consolations II: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words by David Whyte. Here's an abridgment (emphasis mine):

Beliefs invite disbelief. Even people who generally agree with one another are almost always irritated by the minor differences of interpretation they unfailingly discover on further conversation. My belief is never exactly your belief, and from a practical point of view, my belief can never be exactly your belief: belief is about fixing the world in place; no human being ever fixes the world in place in exactly the way their neighbor does. Therefore, in a never ceasing, moveable world, fixed beliefs are the beginning of all unhappiness between human beings. . . . 

The naming mind thinks we are jeopardizing our sense of survival by not believing one thing over another or one thing or another--the naming mind is right: beliefs are about survival, and shared beliefs about communal survival, not about really understanding anything to the core or truth behind the belief itself. Shared beliefs are temporary truces between argumentative human beings. . . . 

Beliefs held publicly, held in place and defended, are always predictable in their ability to divide the believer from the non-believer. . . . 

Beliefs are magnificent stories immobilized to narrow interpretations and then harnessed for a whole spectrum of human needs, but always in the end, when taken literally, as a way to garner power over others. Beliefs taken on by groups or societies always complicate and cover over the original spirit that originated the belief in order to preserve the power of those who now reserve for themselves the sole right to interpret the belief itself. . . . 

There is nothing wrong with beliefs held privately, except our belief that it is necessary for other people to share the same beliefs with me. No matter what innate goodness was in my original belief it is always, when carried too far, superseded by my belief that others who do not agree with this goodness should come to a very bad end. . . . 

Belief is often my act of defence and preservation: belief keeps a part of me alive that I know will disappear if I have a real conversation with the unknown. Beliefs must be defended, beliefs are the foundation of all dead-end arguments. . . . 

It is possible to live and to live well without fixed beliefs: borne along by the great flow of human experience, stories and mythologies out of which every fixed belief was wrought. . . . 

What if I could love the world just as it is and what if I could love everyone and every last thing in it, just as they are: untouched, untrammeled and completely innocent of my own, strange, coercive inherited, or invented way of seeing the world? Perhaps the healthiest belief of all, is one that disarms all the rest: the belief that fixed beliefs are the enemy of all human peace, personal and public. Through that belief we allow every belief, most especially my own, to be more of a curious invitation, a way to come to an understanding, a beautiful question leading all of us together, to somewhere better, beyond belief.

Be curious, fluid, open, and adaptable. Flow.

I always love the thoughts and ideas of Maria Popova at The Marginalian, yet most of the time the way she chooses to present them in her posts doesn't land squarely enough with me for me to reference them here. This one does:

How to Be an Instrument of Kindness in a Harsh World: George Saunders on Unthinking the Mind, Unstorying the Self, and the 3 Antidotes to Your Suffering

Literature, Saunders insists, can quiet our habitual thoughts just enough to invite “a little more empathy, a little more engagement, a little more patience,” effecting “incremental changes of consciousness on the part of the writer and the reader” — changes that have to do with unclenching the fist of story and certainty that is the self and hold out to the world the open palm of curiosity. He identifies three awarenesses we must eventually attain in order to wake up from the core delusions that keep our lives clenched, that stand between us and kindness:

You’re not permanent.

You’re not the most important thing.

You’re not separate. . . . 

Saunders offers the simple, intensely difficult remedy:

Don’t be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die.

The great writer’s gift to the reader are not better answers but better questions, a greater tolerance for uncertainty, a mechanism of transmuting confusion into kindness, and at the same time a way of seeing the world more clearly in order to love it more deeply.

(Emphasis mine.)

I liked many things about the book Walking: One Step at a Time by Erling Kagge. To start, what I wrote for my review (with, again, bolding added for the purposes of this blog post):

This book offers a pleasant, meandering stroll through Kagge's thoughts, feelings, and meditations about the act of walking, a mixture of his extensive experiences with walking, observations from them, the myriad benefits of walking, and philosophical connections.

If a bird sings while hidden in a treetop, I am unable to differentiate the sound that I hear and the bird that I picture to myself from other experiences that have taken up residence in my body. The birdsong that you hear is therefore not the same as that which I am hearing, even if it's the same bird. Everyone has his or her own collection of experiences, and it may be that the information you have archived plays a larger role than the birdsong itself.

The journey can feel random and rambling at times, as Kagge circles his topic to consider it from many perspectives rather than taking a direct linear route through it. At the heart of those circles is his belief in walking as a type of embodied mindfulness. It is encouragement to both challenge oneself to regularly encounter a bit of strain and hardship in order to fully interact with the world and to do it slowly, at walking pace, in order to become fully absorbed in those interactions.

Life is prolonged when you walk. Walking expands time rather than collapses it. . . .

So much in our lives is fast-paced. Walking is a slow undertaking. It is among the most radical things you can do.

I found this brief, conversational book a refreshing, resonant, and thoughtful read that turns walking into meaningful movement.

I also noted many bits I wanted to revisit and excerpt.

Making things a little bit inconvenient gives my life an extra dimension. For as long as I can remember, there's been a little devil inside of me who constantly tells me to choose the path of least resistance: to take a shorter walk than planned, to skip out on visiting a sick friend and go to a cafe instead, to put off getting out of bed when I should. . . . 

If you always choose the path of least resistance, the alternative that offers the fewest challenges will always take priority. Your choices will be predetermined and you will not only live un-freely, but also lead a dull life.

So much in our lives is fast-paced. Walking is a slow undertaking. It is among the most radical things you can do.

-----

"There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting," writes Milan Kundera in the novel Slowness. . . . 

"The degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting."

Kundera is on the verge of something that goes beyond memory and forgetfulness. The pace we choose when we walk can be decisive for how we think. I have tried substituting "memory" with "intelligence" in Kundera's equation. Intelligence can be many things but if you see it as the ability to think abstractly, as well as being able to apply earlier experiences to new situations, I believe that Kundera's maths works out well.

Emotions seem even less understandable than intelligence but it has nonetheless been a meaningful exercise for me to plug them into Kundera's equation. When I walk with a fast pace it feels like many emotions are held at a distance and when I slow down they return.

-----

When the Greek philosopher Diogenes was confronted by the idea that movement does not exist, he replied Solvitur ambulando: "It is solved by walking." Socrates walked around Athens conversing with people.

Charles Darwin went for a stroll twice a day and had his own "thinking path." Soren Kierkegaard was, like Socrates, a street philosopher. He wandered around Copenhagen . . . 

Albert Einstein fled into the woods surrounding Princeton whenever he was frustrated with his work, and Steve Jobs went on walks with colleagues when he wanted to expand his ideas. . . . " . . . the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow," concluded Henry David Thoreau. . . . 

When I walk my thoughts are set free. My blood circulates and, if I choose a faster pace, my body takes in more oxygen. My head clears. If my phone rings while I am sitting down, I like to stand up and pace about as I speak. My memory, concentration and mood improve after only a  few steps. "If you are in a bad mood, go for a walk," was Hippocrates' advice.

-----

 . . . a valuable Inuit tradition. If you are so angry that you can hardly control your feelings, you are asked to leave your home and to talk in a straight line through the landscape outside until you anger has left you. You then mark the point at which your anger is released with a stick in the snow. In this way, the length, or the strength, of one's rage is measured. The most sensible thing that you can do if you are angry--a condition where our reptilian brain rules our decisions--is to walk for a while away from the object of your anger.

-----

Is this culturally determined? I believe much of it is. If I had been born on one of the islands of Hawaii, I might have preferred surfing away from my problems instead of walking. If I had grown up in a family that practiced Zen, I would have chosen zazen, sitting with crossed legs, quiet, deep in contemplation. In Buenos Aires, I may have danced the tango, another form of walking. I have surfed, danced and sat cross-legged at various times, but as I am Norwegian, walking is the most natural way. It helps too that this is one technique I don't have to learn. It's something I've always done.

-----

Paradise is where I am. This is the thought that arises when I sit at home in my living room with a good book, share a meal with people whose company I value, or go on a walk.

-----

Fernando has accompanied many different nomadic people on journeys throughout the world. . . . Fernando has posed the same question to everyone who crosses his path: "Imagine you close your eyes and open them again in twenty years. What would you be happy to see?"

The answers are similar, whether among the Samburu, or the Maasai from Tanzania and Kenya, or various tribes of Rajasthan. Everyone thinks that what would make them happiest is to see their flocks healthy and fat. They imagine families together, relaxing and enjoying nature, which would be rich and fertile. "That's the harmony," says Fernando, "for those who wish to live in balance with nature. Instead of focusing on their individual needs, they look after the common needs, those of the community, in its expanded sense. From a son to a tree to a sheep." The answers mirror a longing to feel that we are part of something larger than ourselves. Not only society, which is important enough, but something more. Nature has its own intelligence. In school, I learned that the spiritual was the opposite of the material, but in the woods these two are not opposites--they are equals. To walk reflects this.

I want to try to remember to ask that of people to see how they answer: "Imagine you close your eyes and open them again in twenty years. What would you be happy to see?" It seems a good way to learn each other and bond.

I have shared--and written here--ideas similar to Kagge's many times. When I walk my thoughts are set free. Most of the things I'm excited to write, I first compose and revise in my head while walking. When I was younger and more fit, I was fond of saying Trail Running Is My Favorite Form of Meditation. Now I would say that it is "trail walking," or hiking. But, really, the trail only improves what is already the key component of the experience: moving my body. I think best when my body is moving.

(See also: No One Will Believe You if You Actually Get It Right.)

I don't actually love this essay, as it spends too much time dissecting the thoughts of historical philosophers, yet it has good ideas. Most of all, I love the foundational claim: gratitude is the antidote to pessimism.

Most of the time, we think the opposite of pessimism is optimism; the reverse of expecting the worst is expecting the best. Yet, at heart, pessimism is feeling already defeated by past circumstances, which is why the future seems bleak. Nothing good will come because nothing good has yet occurred. There's a backward-looking component to it.

And, where optimism is future-looking, gratitude is focused on the present and the past. Being able to appreciate where we are, who we are, and what we have--and how we have come to these current circumstances--keeps alive the idea that the future will offer things to be grateful about as well. It is gratitude about what is and what has been that allows us to look toward what will be with anticipation that can balance any anxiety.

To be able to see the potential good in the future, you must first be able to appreciate the good from the past.

Gratitude Is the Antidote to Pessimism

Nietzsche, Heidegger, and why existence is a gift

Gratitude expresses a profound relation not only with our fellow beings but also with being itself. The big, so-called metaphysical questions--what is the ground of being? Why is there anything at all? Which comes first, the gaping absence or the fullness of creation?--are also questions about how we are to feel existence itself. And perhaps more than anything, we long to know how to feel about our own being, here and now. . . . 

It is difficult to remain in this state of mind. For if we try too hard, the cultivation of gratitude may itself become another pleasure trap; the constant effort to feel grateful and to dwell almost incessantly on the good may even lead to dopamine burnout—especially today, when we are already bombarded with so many excitements.

Furthermore, we do not wish to be duped by a shallow “let’s see things in a positive light.” Existence shows itself in many colors, including dismal grays, and one must be realistic about that. Yet here is the point: we all sense clearly that it makes a great difference whether we are stagnating, regressing, or moving forward, growing. In other words, there is an immediate recognition of goodness. And with a little reflection, we can see that there are indeed things we recognize as good: personal achievements, common goals of humankind, or even existence itself (after all, it is up to us to choose). Such recognition gives us a grip on the situation; it provides coordinates in an otherwise blank space. . . . 

Despite this insistence on recognizing goodness, gratitude is not so much about believing in the good and renouncing the evil (although ethical choices do have to be made in life) as it is about acting from the goodness itself. . . . 

The cultivation of gratitude directs our attention more toward relations rather than objects, and more toward experiences rather than mere knowledge. Furthermore, and this is crucial, it gives us a ground to stand on in times of hardship; indeed, it even allows us to create our own ground, to cultivate our relationships with others and with ourselves. For let’s face it: human life cannot exist without change, voluntary or otherwise. Yet if we choose to adhere to certain practices and to recognize their goodness, we create paths for moving through life—paths for going and returning. Or for taking certain things with us when we decide to leave.

Human life cannot exist without change.

I like this thought.

Writing Isn’t Just the Expression of Thought — It’s the Creation of It

Reading supplies writers with the raw materials for thinking on the page. Together, reading and writing form a single cognitive loop, and it’s only by engaging with both that we can transform the vague notions bouncing around in our minds into original ideas on the page. . . . 

Reading and writing are often seen as two distinct activities — one passive, the other active. We view reading (or listening) as simply an act of receiving, while writing (or speaking) is the act of giving. The written word acts like a kind of mental modem, moving communications from one head to another. . . . 

Originality isn’t isolation; it’s the synthesis of different voices and ideas coming together to form something new. . . . 

These influences are obvious if you’ve read the stories, but in true orchestral fashion, it’s the bringing of these ideas and voices together that created something completely new. . . . 

Reading and writing weren’t separate activities for Darwin; together, they formed a type of extended cognition.

As William Zinsser points out in Writing to Learn (1988): “Writing organizes and clarifies our thoughts. Writing is how we think our way into a subject and make it our own. Writing enables us to find out what we know — and what we don’t know — about whatever we’re trying to learn.”

In that book, Zinsser argues that writing isn’t simply the act of putting thoughts on a page; the very act of writing is an act of thinking. . . . 

Reading isn’t just a way to onboard new information, and writing isn’t just a way to tell the world what we know. They are a way to think and learn throughout our lives.

I relate to this thought.

My spouse sent me this screenshot of our twelve-year-old's homework, which almost reads like a poem.

Algebra is very complex.

My dad is very distinct.

This individual in particular is quite special.

This is quite a pressing issue.

People with ADHD perceive the world differently from others.

This sentence is not super relevant.

Everyone plays a vital role.

The speck of dust is small and not very significant.

[My younger brother] and I are very similar.

I've been informed it was a vocabulary assignment where he had to use each word from the list in its own sentence. So only one word in each sentence is not his; all of the other words, including usage context are original to him. Which makes the sentence about his dad even better: the very first thing he thought of when contemplating the word "distinct" was me (and he's not yet reached the stage where he's embarrassed of me).

And I now I can enjoy adding to my bio statements that those closest to me find me "very distinct," perhaps in the hope that people will read too quickly and think it says "distinguished," perhaps in the hope that people will assume my unique characteristics are more positively different from the norm than negatively.

I recently enjoyed a journey through The Millicent Quibb School of Etiquette for Young Ladies of Mad Science by Kate McKinnon.

Marvelous!

There's humor, madcap adventure, danger, oddball and outcast characters, an evil society of mad scientists, giant worms, etiquette school (danger), useful hermit crabs, and absurdity galore. And it's all presented with a narrative voice that feels like a highly caffeinated, manic cousin to Lemony Snicket; equally sarcastic, with similar sensibilities, yet much more animated and outrageous, and maybe influenced by reading a good bit of Captain Underpants. This story, as with Snicket's, centers on three unfortunate sibling orphans, each with a distinct and oddball talent.

Eugenia liked explosions and searching for expensive rocks. Dee-Dee liked building machines. And Gertrude was interested in things like bugs and beetles and what makes the purple feathers on pigeons sparkle and what makes soap bubbles have rainbows in them and where does a newt lay eggs and do cat whiskers feel anything and are guinea pigs related to pigs and how is a chili pepper hot and things like that.

This, too, is peppered with frequent narrative asides, commentary, irrelevant anecdotes, footnotes, and similar; but where Snicket's are along the lines of . . .

. . . a room with a cozy alcove in it--the word "alcove" here means "a very, very small nook just perfect for sitting and reading." (The Reptile Room)

. . . insertions from this book's narrator, Dr. G. Edwina Candlestank, are more like . . .

Millicent had devised a plan of entry that was simple and implacable, whatever implacable means. I don't feel like looking it up right now.

As you might assume from the book's title and similar evidence, the three sisters learn to apply their particular abilities to the practice of mad science--which, in their town, is outlawed and thought mythical--to save the day. Somewhat. Kind of. With much misfortune thrown in. (More books are coming!)

Yet, similarities aside, this is no mere imitator or knock-off. As a librarian, I start every new celebrity book dubious and with reservations, wondering whether its publication is merely the result of status and connections or if the author truly is suited to the art. McKinnon quickly won me over and I can now firmly say that children's literature is enriched by her inclusion. This book is wonderfully clever, outrageous, enthralling, and entertaining. And let me throw in a pitch for her narration of the audiobook, which is as impressive as it is fantastic. She is marvel at performing this story.

It's hard to find books as fun as this one.

For a further taste, here are a couple of the book's footnotes that I particularly enjoyed:

The Stub-Rat was bred in 1522 for the purposes of terrorizing children in a Dutch village. The children liked to sneak out at night to steal doughnuts from the doughnut store, stubbing their toes on the jutting cobblestones of the sidewalks as they went--then they'd be too tired the following morning to work their mandatory fourteen-hour shifts of plugging up the dam with chewed bubble-gum. So the mayor hired a Virologist named Geerten Van Beerpgen to breed a rat with razor teeth that could hear the sound of a stubbed toe from five miles away. When the children stubbed their toes while sneaking out to the doughnut store, the rat would scurry over and chew off their feet. Well, the plan worked, perhaps a little too well: The Stub-Rat systematically chewed off all the children's feet, then the dam flooded and the village was wiped out. This is, of course, a cautionary tale against (1) child labor and hypocrisy, (2) breeding giant rats, and (3) placing civic trust in men named Geerten Van Beerpgen. But I digress.

And:

[main text] Anyway, there comes a time when the protagonist has lost it all. It's not fun to write, and it's certainly not fun to read. Someone you hopefully have come to care about or perhaps relate to in some way is in pain and probably alone and doesn't know what to do next. Maybe it reminds you of a time when you felt that way, too.*

*[footnote] I know it does for me: I am reminded of the time when I accidentally locked myself in the basement of my house and had to stay there for eight weeks and survived on the one things I buy in bulk and keep in the basement, which is string cheese. I had hypothermia and diarrhea. After eight weeks, I realized that the key to the basement door was stuck in my hair.

Highly recommended.

After getting into current events pretty heavily on this blog a few years ago, I've taken my thoughts other directions more recently. But, for a taste of the larger context that is always in one part of my mind these days, here are parts of a post from Rebecca Solnit's Meditations in an Emergency blog:

This Cold Winter, Love Is a Superpower

The powerful nationwide and beyond opposition to Trump and his authoritarian power grabs has come as a surprise to him and his gang. They believe devoutly in the power of violence and do not comprehend the power of nonviolence. They understand the power that the state has but do not understand the power that civil society has. They understand their own motives--greed, a lust for power, an intolerance of difference--and are baffled or uncomprehending about generosity, the desires for democracy and equality that are about wanting to share rather than hoard power, the tolerance and more than tolerance of difference. . . . Some of us take pride in the diversity of our cities and country; some of us care about people who are supposed to be divided from us by category but can be united with us by care.

For many in the Trump regime it seems incomprehensible or a scam of sorts that those not categorically under attack by ICE are so committed to solidarity with their neighbors who are, and thereby to universal human rights, to standing up on principle, and since ICE's murder of Renee Good, will risk their lives to do so. . . . 

Apparently can't imagine altruism, solidarity, idealism, care that crosses racial lines, interest that is not narrow self-interest, because that is what is behind the way people are showing up for each other in this crisis. . . . 

The poet W.H. Auden wrote in a review of the final book in J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy, "Evil, that is, has every advantage but one – it is inferior in imagination. Good can imagine the possibility of becoming evil – hence the refusal of Gandalf and Aragorn to use the Ring – but Evil, defiantly chosen, can no longer imagine anything but itself. Sauron cannot imagine any motives except lust for domination and fear so that, when he has learned that his enemies have the Ring, the thought that they might try to destroy it never enters his head, and his eye is kept toward Gondor and away from Mordor and the Mount of Doom." . . . 

This is one of our strategic advantages: they routinely fail to comprehend motives that are not selfish, so the idealism, the altruism, the commitment to ideals and principles, that motivates the resistance is seen as a cover-up for the real motives, which helps them cast progressives as criminal or delusional. Empathy is itself an act of imagination, that begins with attention and care: what is it like to be this other being, what are they feeling, what do they need. It arises from and reinforces a sense of non-separation, a sense that we're all in this together, that everyone is your neighbor and no one is a stranger. . . . 

It seems more and more that Trumpists live in a bubble they've created among themselves and with the help of online influencers and social media. It's a bubble in which coexistence with difference is intolerable, cruelty is to be admired and snickered about, racism and misogyny likewise smiled upon, and lies the currency of people who scorn the obligation to others, institutions, justice, and the public record that underlies telling the truth. In which a minority matters infinitely and a majority not at all. Sometimes when they speak publicly, they seem clueless that the rest of us see things so differently, or think that it doesn't matter that we loathe them. . . . 

They do not understand the powers of civil society and the power of nonviolent resistance and noncooperation. Another part is about human nature; they seem to assume that most of us are selfish and timid and will not resist once we see their capacity to dominate and do violence, that we do not care about anything much beyond our individual selves, or that we will see them as winners and admire winning so much we'll come on over. Like Sauron they suffer from failure of imagination. The thing they cannot imagine is us.

It is a time of conflict and change.

Also:

Anatomy of Extremism: What ICE Is Revealing in Minnesota

In principle, extremists primarily seek to harm people who do not share their race, religion, or nationality. . . . 

Extremism is the belief that an in-group’s success or survival can never be separated from the need for hostile action against an out-group.

Enacting harm on out-groups is risky, difficult, and costly, so extremists almost always seek to make the task easier by enlisting the entire in-group. . . . 

The extremist in-group is a movement based on a demand to harm out-groups. . . . 

The eligible in-group is the category of people an extremist movement claims to represent and from which it seeks support. . . . 

If the extremist movement can’t persuade the eligible in-group to enact harm on out-groups, it may try to change the composition of the in-group by declaring that dissenters have forfeited the right to their in-group identity. . . . 

An extremist movement that hasn’t consolidated control of the in-group often declares war against “ineligible” dissenters. . . . 

We’re seeing the early stages of this dynamic right now in Minnesota . . . 

One of the most important ways extremists seek control of the eligible in-group is by exploiting the socially constructed nature of reality. The theory of social construction is popularly understood as “consensus reality,” and its premise is simple enough: The world is too big and complicated for people to experience in its entirety. We can only understand the world through consultation with trusted others, who tell us what happens out of our sight and help us determine right from wrong. Put simply, we can only understand the world in dialogue with others. . . . 

Almost everything done by authoritarians and fascists (for whom extremism is an essential tool) can be understood as an effort to control the social construction of reality by amplifying selected in-group views and entirely suppressing the views of out-groups through methods that range from discrimination to segregation to genocide. . . . 

Minnesotans . . . are communicating a strong in-group consensus to their persecutors by turning out in large numbers and loudly asserting their condemnation through shouting, blowing whistles, giving sermons, honking horns, posting signs, and painting graffiti. These expressions of in-group disapproval can help defuse the psychological drivers of violence and undermine competing narratives and political power structures that seek to validate an extremist orientation and the repressive tactics that it justifies. . . . 

People around the country can support Minnesotans using many of the same tactics . . . 

For in-groups larger than a neighborhood, the consensus is therefore described and defined by institutions and individuals in journalism, politics, and the arts. These portraits of the in-group consensus are distributed through traditional and new media platforms, and none of them are neutral. . . . 

The consensus is won through perception. And when an authority figure, an institution, or an algorithm creates the perception that extremists are winning, it can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. . . . 

If America is to climb out of this era of rage and hate, those who stand against the extremist wave cannot just show up and expect to be counted. They must loudly demand their voices be acknowledged in every setting and institution of civic life, from business to politics, from news to the creative arts. . . . 

The winner of this struggle will define what values the American in-group stands for, perhaps for generations to come.

Reality exists in the interactions between us.

Finally:

A Lesson in Coexistence

The 17th-century town Cacheu was a hub of West African and European cultures, languages and beliefs (and run by women)

In fact, before the rise of nationalism as a worldwide phenomenon in the 19th century, shared lives in multiethnic and religious empires were the norm – whether in Christian European empires of the Atlantic world and Russia, or the Islamic empires of the Ottomans, Safavids and Mughals. Understanding how these societies worked and what helped people to get along is probably one of the most important things that a historian can do these days.

So, what lessons follow today from the kind of world that Peres lived in? We learn that coexistence is both precious and fragile – easily broken down by greed and overconsumption, and by inflexibility. It’s clear that co-sharing in the lives of people from different backgrounds is key for peaceful coexistence. This means speaking many languages, participating in one another’s celebrations, and living in a world of more gendered equity. . . . 

Historians cannot resolve this, of course. But by recognising the different ways past societies organised themselves, they can acknowledge that the world can be different. It is through looking at different times and places that we can begin to identify the steps that are needed to change course in times of crisis.

Let's make sure multiethnic and religious empires are the norm.

So . . . in a nutshell . . . 

A never-ending parade of misunderstandings is to be expected.

There is always a sense of mystery about the ones we care for.

Beliefs invite disbelief.

Fixed beliefs are the beginning of all unhappiness between human beings.

Shared beliefs are temporary truces between argumentative human beings.

Beliefs are always predictable in their ability to divide the believer from the non-believer.

Beliefs are a way to garner power over others.

Beliefs will disappear if I have a real conversation with the unknown.

What if I could love the world just as it is and what if I could love everyone and every last thing in it, just as they are: untouched, untrammeled and completely innocent of my own, strange, coercive inherited, or invented way of seeing the world?

You’re not permanent.

You’re not the most important thing.

You’re not separate.

Don’t be afraid to be confused.

The great writer’s gift to the reader are not better answers but better questions, a greater tolerance for uncertainty, a mechanism of transmuting confusion into kindness, and at the same time a way of seeing the world more clearly in order to love it more deeply.

The birdsong that you hear is therefore not the same as that which I am hearing, even if it's the same bird. Everyone has his or her own collection of experiences, and it may be that the information you have archived plays a larger role than the birdsong itself.

Walking is a type of embodied mindfulness.

Life is prolonged when you walk. Walking expands time rather than collapses it.

Making things a little bit inconvenient gives my life an extra dimension.

When I walk my thoughts are set free.

The most sensible thing that you can do if you are angry--a condition where our reptilian brain rules our decisions--is to walk for a while away from the object of your anger.

A longing to feel that we are part of something larger than ourselves.

Gratitude is the antidote to pessimism.

It is gratitude about what is and what has been that allows us to look toward what will be with anticipation that can balance any anxiety.

The cultivation of gratitude directs our attention more toward relations rather than objects, and more toward experiences rather than mere knowledge.

Together, reading and writing form a single cognitive loop; they form a type of extended cognition.

Originality isn’t isolation; it’s the synthesis of different voices and ideas coming together to form something new.

Those closest to me find me "very distinct."

This is, of course, a cautionary tale.

They do not comprehend the power of nonviolence, the power that civil society has. They are baffled by generosity, the desires for democracy and equality that are about wanting to share rather than hoard power, the more-than-tolerance of difference.

Empathy is itself an act of imagination, that begins with attention and care.

A sense of non-separation, a sense that we're all in this together, that everyone is your neighbor and no one is a stranger.

We can only understand the world in dialogue with others.

The consensus is won through perception.

Coexistence is both precious and fragile.

Co-sharing in the lives of people from different backgrounds is key for peaceful coexistence.

Imagine you close your eyes and open them again in twenty years. What would you be happy to see?