In nova fert animus

Sonnet

Sun, 24 Feb 2013 00:21:01 -0500

I love you like the rain is wide and it returns
a column to the sea
and all this weight somehow confirms
a miracle in me

now as an old moon goes from sight to hide
a brimming eye I go
I am not gone you may yet know
a tugging in the tide

I loved you liked the rain which builds
what it could never hope to hold
and so must fall and is consoled

come nevermind love illuminate
illuminate love nevermind, come
I have and love you like the rain

A Film on Rudolf Steiner

Thu, 01 Mar 2012 10:36:11 -0500

An emerging interest of mine. I actually met the filmmaker when he came to Amherst College. I imagine I’ll have more to say on Steiner in the future. I’ve just ordered this film on Steiner (created for the 150th anniversary of his birth). There is a trailer here:

http://rudolfsteinerfilm.squarespace.com/

Reason at the Gates: A Response to a Lecture on Miracles

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 10:37:00 -0500

Nothing is so convenient as a decisive argument of this kind, which must at least silencethe most arrogant bigotry and superstition, and free us from their impertinent solicitations. I flatter myself, that I have discovered an argument of a like nature, which, if just, will, with the wise and learned, be an everlasting check to all kinds of superstitious delusion, and consequently, will be useful as long as the world endures. For so long, I presume, will the accounts of miracles and prodigies be found in all history, sacred and profane. (Hume, “Of Miracles”)

I attended a philosophy lecture yesterday afternoon on the subject of miracles. The lecturer, a beloved professor here at the college, gave a very clear, very interesting defense of David’s Hume’s claim about the irrationality of believing in miracles based upon testimony. The argument, as far as I could tell (and I haven’t read the section of the Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding “Of Miracles,” where this argument can be found, so, bear with me) was the following:

I. We have a sense of the way that nature works (and doesn’t work) based upon an overwhelming amount of inductive evidence. For example, in nature. dead men stay dead.

II. A miracle (by definition) is an event whose nature contradicts our established sense of how nature works. For example, dead men coming back to life.

III. The inductive evidence for the way that nature works (based upon our experience in the past) will always outweigh the (equally inductive) evidence that could be offered in support of any miracle by any witness.

Therefore, it will never be reasonable to believe in a miracle based upon testimony.

Questions about this argument occur to me now, which I wish I had thought to ask during the lecture (what about miracles that one experiences first hand? How is Hume evaluating the relative strength of inductive evidence?), but what is more interesting to me is the reason that these questions did not occur to me during the lecture. I was preoccupied by something else.

I felt uneasy during the lecture, like some part of me was vulnerable, at stake, in a way that I didn’t understand, despite the fact that I did (I think) at least manage to get a basic understanding of the material. The question that I wanted to ask of the lecturer after his lecture, but which I refrained from doing until later when I had a chance to speak to him one-on-one, was, “Do you believe in miracles?” Why was this the question that I wanted to ask? The man (who I admire) has just spent an hour defining and refining the definition of the word “miracle” and its various relations to nature, understanding, Christianity, and language itself? To ask this man, baldly, whether or not he believes in miracles, seemed, admittedly, like an impertinence, which-if it did not prove that I had not been listening, or did not understand the point of the lecture, might prove something still worse, that I objected, irrationally, to the enterprise of philosophy itself, within which this lecture was but another humble episode.

After some reflection (and some sleep) I decided that the most likely explanation for my desire to ask this man about his personal belief in miracles was that, in fact, I was objecting to something foundational about his approach, and, unselfaware as I was, the (admittedly, immature) way that I decided to object, was to ask this question whose purpose was, not to openly challenge, but to clandestinely dismiss the ground-floor assumptions of this kind of inquiry into the nature of miracles (and, of course, all conclusions).

I am a little embarrassed the whole thing. Believing as I do in the importance of dialogue, honesty, self-examination, integrity, I can’t help but feel that the unease I felt in the lecture yesterday afternoon got the better of me. Still, the questions remains: Why did I feel uneasy? What was it about the terms upon which this inquiry into miracles was based that threatened me into a defensive posture? I don’t have a committed position on miracles, either way, so it wasn’t any conclusion that the lecturer drew. I happen to admire and respect this lecturer a great deal, so it wasn’t animosity against the man himself. What was it, then, that made me feel like I was on the outside of a conversation which, though I understood the terms upon which admittance would be granted, I resisted entering?

The tradition of analytic philosophy, which, I realize as I write this now, I have to admit, I love and hate like the things that we most love, brings with it a set of claims—expressed and concealed by the apotheosis of rationality—which, though universalized within the framework of the tradition (for all people, it is claimed, can access this reason), nevertheless, are claims to a unique access to the truth about the human being. First, that her mind, in its structure, in its nature, in its experience, follows (or can and should follow) the path charter out by infinitely various set of relationships predicated by the basic axioms of logical reasoning: principally, the law of non-contradiction, the law of identity, and the lovely consequence of the syllogism). Second, that as the human being seeks to know itself and its world (“All men by nature long to know” Metaphysics, Aristotle) the appropriate, only reliable, and the most respectable approach is to send our sense data into the crucible of this reason, and accept as knowledge—however odd, however insufficient—the alloy of experience and reason that emerges. These two claims, which, though they seem to me this morning to be the most important two, could be articulated differently, could be joined by other claims, but I imagine that the consequences of these other claims would be similar. If you define the human being as rational, according to a tradition of what constitutes and does not constitute reasoning, then, when (not if) you encounter a human being whose way of understanding themself, understanding her world, of reaching, as we all do, for truth, you will be compelled to face a very undesirable choice: let go of the premise upon which your whole system of knowledge is based, or fail—perhaps imperceptibly, but, finally, unmistakably—to recognize this human being as human.

To some, infinitely forgivable degree, the unease that I felt sitting in this clear, brilliant lecture yesterday afternoon, was the argumentative force of these fundamental analytic claims, keeping me, as it were, at the gates of the human community. Of course I could enter (and this is why the analytic tradition will always be able to defend itself against these broader ethical charges), but only upon the condition that I accept—even temporarily—that what made me human was this capacity for reason. In other words, for someone, like myself, who loves reason, but does not feel that it is the thing which makes him human, I was compelled to choose between betraying myself and a kind of human exile.

After the lecture I approached the lecturer to ask my question, “Do you believe in miracles?” Predictably, the question registered as a kind of impertinence (and for my social being, I was grateful that I didn’t ask the question in the lecture, thereby revealing my impertinence to a roomful of people whom I sincerely admire). He said, first, “I don’t know what miracles are.” Then, apologetically, “I hate to play the philosopher, but I guess I have to ask you what you mean by “miracles.”” This was a good, if predictable, question. I’m not sure that I myself knew what it was that I was trying to ask. While I was thinking, this lecturer offered an impressive, illuminating summary of the various ways that “miracles” have been defined historically. I told him that I understood his question, and that he need not apologize for being compelled to ask it, but I was at a loss to clarify further. A few moments of silences passed between us, then, he offered, somewhat to my surprise, since I had not repeated myself, in response to my original question, “No.” That of all the kinds of miracles he knew about and understood so well, he couldn’t (currently) think of one which he believed in. The clarity of his position, the elegance of the reasoning that led him to it, and, after all, despite my impertinence, his willingness to take my question, at least within his own framework, seriously, combined to make a moment that was touching, baffling, heartbreaking, and infuriating.

Links

“Of Miracles,” David Hume: http://www.bartleby.com/37/3/14.html

Political Consciousness

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 09:26:58 -0500

“Man is a political animal” (Aristotle, Politics)

I have been listening to the news more. In December, I stumbled onto Amy Goodman and Juan Gonzales and Nermeen Shaikh, and their style of reporting—characterized, for me, by their attention to the perspectives of the members of afflicted communities (as opposed to just the leaders), non-specialists commentators, citizen reporters and, generally, to questions of humanitarianism, democracy, and global community—has (in combination, of course, with many other aspects of my life) awakened something in me that I recognize as a political consciousness. This consciousness is political, not by virtue of its association with a particular political movement or ideology (I’m not, for example, attracted to DemocracyNow! for its liberalism), but, more simply, I call it political because it concerns itself with the relationship between my own thinking and the thinking of others, my own experience and the experience of others, my self and other’s various selves.

Admittedly, I have the sense that my political consciousness has arrived somewhat late. Although I have no idea who could possibly assess the punctuality of this kind of change (one of the characteristics of metamorphosis, after all, is that it keeps a unique schedule).

The Elpis School

Thu, 09 Feb 2012 16:04:32 -0500

The classroom dynamic becomes more durable over time, but it is also true that the smallest things can make or break an individual class. Today, for example,I was relatively prepared to finish teaching a song by the Wailin’ Jennys (One Voice), and, for most of the rehearsal, three of my more reliable singers were not only distracted, but unusually distracting.

I became frustrated with them, and, though I restrained myself, my frustration cluttered my own mind (musically and otherwise). I guess it seemed to me that there was no good reason for these normally attentive students to have gone over to the dark side and become conspirators in the destruction of my plan, but, as is so often the case, my frustration was the result of inadequate attention to the specifics of the situation. All students’ behavior occurs for a specific reason, but it is dangerously easy, I think, to feel as though a particular behavior has no right to occur in my class—that is, to forget, temporarily, that human beings (which our students are) do things for reasons, and (the corollary) to what they do we must address the reasons underlie the action.

Today, I had arranged the classroom in a slightly different way, so that everyone could see both me and the board, and (I realize now) the solar path had changed significantly since early January. The result of these two factors was that the sun had found its way directly into the eyes of these singers, and the remarkable thing is that I saw this. I observed this fact, but, focused as I was on getting through this song, I could not muster a more mindful response than simply demanding more of their attention. I saw it, but I did not see it, so I spent much of the class fighting, not with my students, but with the sun, and this took away from my ability to really command the attention I needed (as the conductor) to achieve ensemble.

I did, at least, remember to track down Floyd after class, and spend a few minutes working on some basic singing technique with him. I have been meaning two for a month (since I know he struggles, but I don’t have time to wait for him during classes). He was very willing to receive help and delighted in his quick progress.

Liberal Arts Young Teacher Conference

Thu, 09 Feb 2012 15:50:35 -0500

Reminder to self: This could be a good idea.

Becoming a Teacher (1)

Thu, 02 Feb 2012 18:40:30 -0500

One of the things that I attempt to be in my life is a choir teacher at a small, local high school. I enjoy vocal music, but I wasn’t a music major, nor have I made a particularly deep study of either vocal repertoire or technique. I have good fundamentals, experience in a college A Capella group, and the support of a small group of much more experienced musicians. I remember clearly expressing concern over my lack of conventional preparation for this kind of work to the faculty chair at my interview, but, nevertheless, I was hired, and I have been teaching at (let’s call it), The Elpis School, since August.

Working at Elpis has been the occasion for a surprising metamorphosis, whose nature, as I come to understand it myself, I intend to unfold here, but a thought has been rattling around in my head lately that I should make some regular record of my experiences at this school. As I begin to seriously imagine life as a teacher, I recognize that I feel somewhat alone among my contemporaries on this path-a feeling which, I believe, is derived largely from ignorance of other people my age embarking on the same kind of journey. I have thought, “How wonderful it would be to have a community of young people, all over my country, perhaps all over the world, who, like me, find themselves drawn to the old, strange, still outstanding work of teaching, not because they needed a job (though we do), or as a isolated act of service (though it might be), but because they, like me, discover that their thinking, their feeling, indeed their whole lives are animated by the attention, inquiry, and thought that they give to others.” How wonderful, indeed.

Graduating from a Good School

Fri, 28 Oct 2011 10:46:08 -0400

I don’t have the time to develop this thought right now, but I think about it regularly. There are unanticipated consequences of going to a good school. Not a “good school,” which is good only because of highly publicized rankings, but a school, like Amherst, like many others, which is actually good—which actually does light a fire in it’s students.

A friend sent me this article a few days ago. It’s about consulting and and investment banking and their ability to attract hoards of graduates from good schools:

http://www.yaledailynews.com/news/2011/sep/30/even-artichokes-have-doubts/

I am going to inquire at our own career center about the statistics of Amherst graduates that go into these fields, though I am expecting similar results (within 5%).

Winter

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 20:21:23 -0400

Speaking of change, apparently the season has recently changed in Amherst. I just walked outside, and there was half an inch of fresh snow on my 4Runner. October 27th.

Sam Cooke "A Change is Gonna Come"

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 19:53:26 -0400

Sam Cooke "A Change is Gonna Come"

In nova fert animus dicere mutatis

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 19:45:51 -0400

As I reflect on the state of my life, and the states of the lives I have lived, I recognize that until recently, I really did not believe Heraclitus when he renders his sense of the ever-changingness of life in his observation that one can (of course) never step into the same river twice. If I believed him, I don’t think I realized what was at stake in such an observation about the nature of things. I certainly didn’t realize that the class of things which were not rivers, and yet subject to the same mutability was not only endless, but intimately relevant to the daily unfolding of my life.

Recently, I have slipped into a new period in my life where I feel, as more and more instances of substantial change present themselves, my confidence in the lastingness of things has become vulnerable to an experience of things’ passingness. My work, my thinking, my aspirations, my self—all of these have brought me to a river. Rapid and slow, merciful and brutal, lovely and foul with burgeoning of life. Predictable, incredible.

Heraclitus, Ovid, and, of course, Sam Cooke. “I was born by the river….”