Thinking on Thinking
Four short essays.
Thinking is two things. First, it is making one's observations conscious. That is, becoming aware that one is drinking water and not just drinking. Second, it is ordering one's observations in relation to other senses, thoughts, behaviors, or memories. For example, I am drinking water, and I am drinking it from a glass, which I took from the cupboard. Do I like water? Well, I like tea better, but water is okay. Relating thoughts to other thoughts is what makes thinking difficult. You need a reason for relating two thoughts and reasons reify hierarchy. I said tea is better than water. Why? Hot beverages soothe my throat. Sometimes water is served hot, but usually it's cold or room temperature. I always drink hot tea. That's why I like tea better than water. Knowing the reason why I like tea better solidifies the preference, making it concrete.
I knew I liked tea before I wrote that tedious paragraph. But crucially, I wasn't thinking until I wrote it. You can know something without thinking about it; I'm not sure I've ever thought about why I like tea over water. So, should I think about it? I spent three minutes coming up with that explanation. If I kept thinking, I bet I could make up even more reasons! Does having a reason for preferring tea affect my life? Maybe, if my reasons are contingent. Say, for example, that I liked beer more than wine because beer is cheaper. But then the price of beer increases due to a surprise tax enacted through the lobbying of a vindictive cabal of vintners. I should reevaluate my preference for beer, as my reason for holding that preference is no longer valid. Thinking through my reason will change my preference.
I wish I could deeply consider every aspect of my life. Yet, I sure don't have time for that. Also, thinking is hard, I'd very much like to avoid it if possible. Turns out, a good mechanism for avoiding thought is asking yourself: are my reasons contingent on external forces? If your reasons aren't contingent on external forces, but on internal facts (such as, I like the taste, in the case of tea), then don't think about it too much! Yay, hard work avoided. Yet still, there are times when you're called upon to defend your preferences. What if I prefer beer to wine for reasons of taste and texture? Some dork is still gonna prod me about it at the bar. I won't be able to defend myself unless I think about it. "I like bubbles," I'll say. Then the dork will reply, "but some wines are sparkling!" To which I'll then say, "yeah but I like the taste of fermented grain." I'll spare the rest of what is sure to be an unbearably boring dialogue. The point is, we will eventually distill the thought until we have found the irreducible truth of why I like beer.
The irreducible truth: that's where thinking propels us. There are some select questions that orbit my mind regularly, what is the meaning of this life, when will I die, will I be okay with it when I do. To divide and measure these questions, that's hard enough. To find the irreducible truth? I don't even know what that would mean. Simultaneously, in every step, the finish line moves and my feet sink into the mud. Even in this paragraph, I stutter as I try to break the question apart. Maybe we should start here: what was the meaning of this week?
I interviewed a grad student at UMN five days ago. Listening to the recording, I was stricken to realize that I'm not a clear speaker. Um's, ah's, and like's creeping into my speech. But what really embarrassed me was a terrible vocal habit: I verbally affirm every sentence my counterpart says. The transcript is broken into a thousand pieces, with me saying "yeah" every other sentence. Yet in the moment, the encouragement facilitated the interview. Despite the fact that my questions were imprecise, and the student I was speaking with speaks English as a second language, we communicated very well.
Turning speech into text transforms the language. It's not new to say that writing is thinking. It is also not new to say that good writing is rewriting. Good writing is cutting and extending. Not only removing the extraneous ah's and um's that pepper my thinking, but imaginatively driving forward those thoughts that were cut short. Every first draft is a jumble of ideas, most of which are dead ends. The essence of editing is finding those thoughts that turn into fructuous trees, dutifully fertilizing and watering, watching to see what buds.
But conversations are about communicating. Conversations are about vibes. Every word is laden with meanings private to each speaker. We circle around each other in beautiful, but individual dances. A good conversation is about goading each other on. Half of it is just responding to body language. The words become prods, poking at faces and posture. There's leading and following, there's sculpting and forming.
I learned a lot about this grad students life. In the back and forth afterwards over email, I kept asking him if he thought the way I presented him was accurate. I think that he liked the way I portrayed him. But the words on the page are far different than the man I spoke with.
What comes out of a conversation is often nowhere close to the irreducible truth. Usually, I leave more confused than I started. Conversations are artifacts of two minds attempting to come to consensus. This is orthogonal to finding the irreducible truth.
The point of the book The Little Prince is that love is proportional to the time spent with something. The titular Prince has a rose on his home planet who he loves. His rose is beloved because it is his, and it is his because he had spent much time caring for her. The tautology of love is that it is love. Love becomes more true by loving.
What I mean is this, each time you pass over a thought it is deepened and extended. The quality of a nascent thought is low. But like a rose it will blossom when attended. Conversely, things can become more loved by being thought about. Falling in love is like anxiety: the beloved/anxious thought orbits the mind in ever shortening arcs. But things are more true when they lead you outside of yourself. I can't defend this assumption (yet). Anxiety is a thought deepened inwards, love is a thought deepened outwards. Sometimes you mistake anxiety for love because it has the appearance of romance (for anyone who knows me, I'm not talking about anyone I've dated in the last year).
To find the irreducible truth, you must externalize. What is solid when it is outside of yourself? What is hollow and gives way under force?
Loving is two things. First, it is observing the beloved. That is, becoming aware of the facets of their being: their vocabulary, habits, memories, and behaviors. Second, it is submitting to love's force which orders all the dislocated facets of your own being. This second action is by nature constructive, however, I'm sure that timber doesn't feel good as nails drive through it. Ordering doesn't imply ordinate/subordinate relationships. Reason has nothing to do with it. Its dimensions are time and faithfulness: gravitating facets that would never naturally come together, until they fuse.
Love is less about finding irreducible truth and more about becoming coherent. There is a sense of reduction, each part should distill to its simplest form. That is not the main work. People have many potentials, yet, the course of life is becoming a particular person. Loving relationships discern where each part of your personhood goes and how each part should relate to the others. You are you because of the communities that you've been in. They (all of the other particular people within the community) make demands on you by nature of their being. The love of the community makes you a particular person, as opposed to a bundle of potentials.
Love is less about finding irreducible truth and more about becoming coherent. Some truths require wholeness. It may be that you can be reduced to your singular facets. Each of those pieces being their own truth about you. But the you that you are: that is not reducible, it only exists in the coherency wrought by love.