Feeling It

     Recently, our beloved Linda Fox has been posting somewhat more personal stuff. She’s been feeling below par, and I’m here to tell you: when we old folks get the sniffles, or a chill, or a bout of the ol’ lumbago, we feel more than just the physical misery. We feel a heightened sense of things. However briefly, our focus turns to our mortality.

     “Remember, O King, that thou art mortal.” Philip of Macedon, great monarch and warlord that he was, had a page tell him that each and every day. It helped him to keep his focus: What can I do with the time allotted to me? Consciousness of mortality is what underlies the value of time.

     Younger folks seldom get that feeling at full strength, or for more than a brief spell. They feel indestructible and immortal. And in a sense, it’s a blessing that they should feel so. But while there’s a gift of eternity awaiting us, we must first pass through this life, with all its stresses, wounds, and suffering, to reach that next one. As the man said in the song, no one here gets out alive.

     It’s on my mind this morning for several reasons. I’ll refrain from elucidating most of them. But one strikes me as worth blathering about, if only briefly.

     We don’t respect our forebears nearly enough.

     Today’s cultural milieu very nearly worships newness. The new gets something like a presumption of superiority over the old. And to be fair, some new things and new ideas are superior to what has gone before. But not many.

     What is new is also untried. That which is untried has no track record – no pedigree, if you will. Abandoning what’s been tried and found adequate – by prior standards, at least – in favor of what’s untried and thus largely unknown can bring calamity. Promises are no guarantee of performance.

     That’s one of the reasons I strive to avoid saying “should.” “Should” is the bane of the scientific mind. “Should” – especially when used after the fact — elevates desires over actual events.

     A good scientist doesn’t expect to find anything. He reports what he sees. — Frank Herbert

     What has been tried has known effects, at least to some degree. It may have some unknown effects, owing to the limits of earlier methods of testing and observation. But the effects that were perceptible when it was tried are reasonably well known and established.

     The prescriptions of innovators deserve to be viewed skeptically. (NB: Not “cynically.”) This is especially imperative when they involve policies and procedures to be coercively imposed on the many. Always remember: Governments don’t give refunds.

     Our failure to learn from our progenitors isn’t solely our fault. Part of it stems from their impatience with our young selves: “Why do it that way, Dad?” “Shut up, kid.” On those occasions when we’ve resented the authority of elders, more often than not it was because of that impatient unwillingness to take the time to explain. “This keeps the cookies from crumbling.” “This makes for a more secure seal.” “This reduces the losses from transmission.” “This minimizes the probability of igniting the atmosphere and destroying all life on Earth.”

     There’s an old story about a woman who, when preparing a roast for dinner, always sliced off half an inch from each end before putting the roast into her baking pan. One day a friend asked her why she did so. Her response: “I’ve always done it.” “But why?” the friend asked. “It’s what my mother did.” However, the woman was troubled by her inability to give a better reason, so on her next phone chat with her mother, she asked why Mom had invariably done so. The reply: “It’s because my roasting pan was too small. I don’t know why you do it.”

     Knowledge accumulates over time, if not suppressed by force or intimidation. Our awareness of this is subconscious. It doesn’t always rise to the surface when we need it. Yet its implications are many and vital.

     Our elders were not dummies. In the main, they were highly competent. After all, look at what they’ve bequeathed us. That doesn’t mean that they were always right, or that they never overlooked a superior alternative. But it does suggest that we should refrain from dismissing their ways and opinions outright.

     While we enjoy the fruits of their labors and strive to add to them with our own insight and toil, let’s not neglect to ponder how they arrived at their ways – how they decided to do as they did. Why did it work? What experiences led them to do things that way? Was there a superior way of doing things? If so, why didn’t they grasp it and use it? Should we be so very sure that we know better than they did?

     In this connection, please read Christopher Anvil’s classic short story “Mission of Ignorance.”

     Keep the old while it is good. Take the new when it is better. – from a Salada tea bag tag.