Anyone who knows me knows that I am a loyal Apple customer. Too loyal, some might add, as I use even the built-in calendar app and my iCloud email account. The hype right now is around the iPhone X, and yes, I want one. Whatever, I am not ashamed.
If, one day, out of the blue, I received one in the mail, what would I do?
I would thank the mailman of course, he just delivered me a material good that I had been thirsting for. Thank you, mailman.
Clearly, he is the explanation, justification, and conclusion for this iPhone X.
After signing the papers, thanking the mailman, and maybe giving him a hug, I’d throw the box away (not look for a return address), and enjoy my iPhone X. And if anyone asked me where/how I’d gotten it or who kept paying for my data (and other logistics), I would just shrug and say, look, all I know is that I wanted this thing and a mailman brought it to me. And you know what? As any other normal human being with rational faculties would do, I asked no questions about it, attributed it all to the mailman, thanked him, and my business ended there. Good day my sir.
Are you tired of this long-winded metaphor yet (I hope you know it’s a metaphor)? Because I am. And not because it’s boring, but because it’s absurd to even write it out. Because it’s so unnatural. We don’t act like this – at least, not in our immediate daily lives. If we get mail, we look for who sent it, why they sent it. We reach out to them if we can, we thank them.
But at the same time, we do act like this, subconsciously. Every second of our lives, we are getting things that we don’t question. Or we question, but not wholly. We explain some things, but leave a host of questions unanswered.
It's as if you ask about my iPhone X, and I tell you how the mail delivery system works in the United States. And you keep asking, but who’s it from? Why did they send it to you? And I keep telling you – look, that doesn’t matter! What matters is that the system works, and I got the iPhone. Why are you asking so many [useless] questions?
And of course, you’re simply befuddled at this situation. Right? (You better be.)
Some examples of things we take for granted and partially understand are: being able to breathe, abundance of water, perfect gravitational constant, enjoying diversity of life in every way possible, colors, flavors, people who love you, etc.
We kind of understand the HOW – oxygen, the water cycle, rocks bumping into each other in space for thousands of years, evolution, light rays and reflections, taste buds and saliva, serotonin and oxytocin blah blah blah…
But where from? WHY?
To survive? That’s a low-quality argument and you know it. It’s circular. It’s always one-step behind. Where did the original singularity come from? Why do these things work?
This what our current scientific enterprise does. JUST FYI. I promise I am not an anti-science conspiracy theorist that lives in an underground cave. I am just tired of repeating the same thing – science doesn’t answer our why questions. It answers our how questions.
So no, science can’t answer questions about ethics. (I will fight Sam Harris on this but that’s another post waiting to be written). No, science can’t tell me where I can find meaning in my life. The "why?" is where all the juicy answers about meaningful living are! And I think more of us need to be digging there.
Without further ado, I present you Exhibit A.I, II, III of this blogpost:
Exhibit A shows three screencaps from the recent Doctor Strange movie. I watched it about a month ago and loved it because despite the alien elements, in its core, it is so quintessentially human.
The movie follows Dr. Stephen Strange, an extremely successful neurosurgeon, who gets into a terrible car crash that severely damages his hands and thus prevents him from performing any more surgeries. Early in the movie, he claims, “My work is at least going to save thousands for years to come.”
Of course, all that work is cut short once he loses the precision he had in his hands. After some experimental studies and hopeless physical therapy, he eventually finds his way to Nepal. He meets with the Ancient One who asks him, “When you reattach a severed nerve, is it you who heals it back together or the body?”
Your cells are not aware of you. Your atoms, your electrons – they don’t know they are a part of you. We say they are “programmed” to work a certain way – but we skip the part where there is no guarantee that they will follow through with their programming.
Against this backdrop, let me pull up Exhibit B.
It doesn’t matter if the doctor had 30+ years of training, and the most advanced technological tools available to him. There is no guarantee that a patient will heal or survive after his operation. Sometimes, doctors do all that they can, and there is still no luck. And sometimes, they think there is no chance of recovery but a miracle (!) happens.
Concurrence and causality are not the same thing. Problem of induction, remember? Just like there is no assurance that when you plant a seed and water it, it will bloom – there is no guarantee that a doctor performing an operation will help you.
These exhibits aren’t connected simply because they are both about doctors by the way, they are part of the same gallery because of bigger implications about where human ambition and lack of insight fits into the bigger picture.
What the doctor case shows me is that we want to take credit for things that don’t really belong to us. Whether it be healing someone or writing a poem, we have to admit that there is an element that’s beyond us. You do your part (as a doctor, a writer, a farmer) but the rest is outside of your domain of control.
I survive open-heart surgery and thank the doctor. The doctor thinks they (alone) saved me. When in reality, the doctor is the mailman (who likes taking credit for my iPhone X despite not knowing or wondering where it came from), and me? – I am the short-sighted receiver who asks no questions.
I hope we escape these trivialities soon. I am leaving you with a beautiful Rumi poem.
“Who Says Words With My Mouth?
All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry, I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.”
Indeed, these are the questions of the century – Who is saying words with my mouth? Who is looking out with my eyes?
Who keeps sending me these packages? And why? What am I supposed to learn from them?
Lots of stamps,
Belle