Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Learning to Need You
Here's a cd worth owning:
I was singing this song to the ocean that night when the lightning struck.
Hope you're reminded like I was.
I was singing this song to the ocean that night when the lightning struck.
Hope you're reminded like I was.
from the Duino Elegies
I hated this stuff when I was reading it for World Lit. Rainer Maria Rilke wrote these ten really complicated poems (in German) that were supposed to be exploring the meaning of life and all that, but none of us could understand any of them until Teach explained them to us. But this one, the last one, is pretty straightforward and stands on its own as a tribute to growing in our trials, learning from our sadness.
Now that I'm through with the class, these poems keep coming back in my mind. I'll probably share bits from the rest of the book later, but this one is enough for now. :)
There is some amazing poetry in this, so revel in the wordplay a little bit.
Pay attention to the last five stanzas. They are amazing.
The Tenth Elegy
Someday, at the end of the nightmare of knowing,
may I emerge singing praise and jubilation to assenting angels.
May I strike my heart's keys clearly, and may none fail
because of slack, uncertain, or fraying strings.
May the tears that stream down my face
make me more radiant: may my hidden weeping
bloom. How I will cherish you then, you grief-torn nights!
Had I only received you, inconsolable sisters,
on more abject knees, only buried myself with more abandon
in your loosened hair. How we waste our afflictions!
We study them, stare out beyond them into bleak continuance,
hoping to glimpse some end. Whereas they're really
our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one
of the seasons of the clandestine year--; not only
a season--: they're site, settlement, shelther, soil, abode.
Ah, but the City of Pain: how strange its streets are:
the false silence of sound drowning sound,
and there--proud, brazen, effluence from the mold of emptiness--
the gilded hubbub, the bursting monument.
How an Angel would stamp out their market of solaces,
set up alongside their church bought to order:
clean and closed and woeful as a post office on Sunday.
Outside, though, there's always the billowing of the fair.
Swings of Freedom! High-divers and Jugglers of Zeal!
And the shooting gallery with its figures of idiot Happiness
which jump, quiver, and fall with a tinny ring
whenever some better marksman scores. Onward he lurches from cheers
to change; for booths courting each curious taste
are drumming and barking. And then--for adults only--
a special show: how money breeds, its anatomy, not some charade:
money's genitals, everything, the whole act
from beginning to end--educational and guaranteed to make you
virile.........
....Oh, but just beyond that,
behind the last of the billboards, plastered with signs for "Deathless,"
that bitter beer which tastes sweet to those drinking it
as long as they have fresh distractions to chew...,
just beyond those boards, just on the other side: things are REAL.
Children play, lovers hold each other, off in the shadows,
pensive, on the meager grass, while dogs obey nature.
The youth is drawn farther on; perhaps he's fallen in love
with a young Lament.....He pursues her, enters meadowland. She says:
"It's a long way. We live out there..."
Where? And the youth follows.
Something in her bearing stirs him. Her shoulders, neck--,
perhaps she's of noble descent. Still, he leaves her, turns around,
glances back, waves...What's the use? She's a Lament.
Only the youthful dead, in the first state
of timeless equanimity, the phase of the unburdening,
follow her with loving steps. The girls
she waits for and befriends. Gently lets them see
the things that adorn her. Pearls of grief and the delicate
veils of suffrance.--When with young men
she walks on in silence.
Later, though, in the valley where they live, an older one, one of the
elder Laments,
adopts the youth when he asks questions:--Long ago,
she says, we Laments were a powerful race. Our forefathers
worked the mines in those giant mountains; among humans
sometimes you'll find a fragment of polished primeval grief,
or, from an old volcano, a slag of petrified wrath.
Yes, it came from here. We used to be rich.--
And she guides him quietly through the wide landscapes of Laments,
shows him the columns of temples, or the ruins
of those strongholds from which, long ago, Lament-Kings
wisely governed the land. Shows him the tall
trees of tears and the fields of flowering melancholy
(the living know them only as tender leaves):
shows him the animals of sorrow, grazing,--and sometimes
a bird startles, flies low through their lifted gazes, extends
into the distance the ancient glyph of its desolate cry.--
At evening she leads him out to the ancestral tombs
of the House of Lament, those of the sybils and the dire prophets.
But as night approaches, they move more slowly, until
suddenly, rising up moon-like, there appears: the great sepulchre
that watches over everything. Twin brother
to the one on the Nile, the exalted Sphinx--: visage
of the hidden chamber.
And they marvel at that kingly head, which silently,
for all time, has weighed the human face
in the stars' balance.
And higher, the stars. New ones. The stars of the Land of Pain.
Slowly the Lament names them: "There, look-
the Rider, the Staff, and that constellation with so many stars
they call: Calyx. And then, farther, toward the pole:
Cradle; Path; Puppet; Window; The Burning Book.
But in the southern sky, pure as if held in the palm
of a sacred hand: that clear, gleaming M
that means Mothers......"
But the dead youth must go on, and the elder Lament
leads him in silence as far as the wide ravine,
where they see shimmering in the moonlight:
the Font of Joy. She names it
reverently, saying, "Among the living
it becomes a powerful stream."
They stand at the foot of the range.
And she embraces him there, weeping.
He climbs on alone, into the mountains of primeval grief.
And no step rings back from that soundless fate.
But suppose the endless dead were to awake in us some emblem:
they might point to the catkins hanging
from the empty hazel trees, or direct us to the rain
descending on black earth in early spring.
And we, who always think of happiness
rising, would feel the emotion
that almost baffles us
when a happy thing falls.
Now that I'm through with the class, these poems keep coming back in my mind. I'll probably share bits from the rest of the book later, but this one is enough for now. :)
There is some amazing poetry in this, so revel in the wordplay a little bit.
Pay attention to the last five stanzas. They are amazing.
The Tenth Elegy
Someday, at the end of the nightmare of knowing,
may I emerge singing praise and jubilation to assenting angels.
May I strike my heart's keys clearly, and may none fail
because of slack, uncertain, or fraying strings.
May the tears that stream down my face
make me more radiant: may my hidden weeping
bloom. How I will cherish you then, you grief-torn nights!
Had I only received you, inconsolable sisters,
on more abject knees, only buried myself with more abandon
in your loosened hair. How we waste our afflictions!
We study them, stare out beyond them into bleak continuance,
hoping to glimpse some end. Whereas they're really
our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one
of the seasons of the clandestine year--; not only
a season--: they're site, settlement, shelther, soil, abode.
Ah, but the City of Pain: how strange its streets are:
the false silence of sound drowning sound,
and there--proud, brazen, effluence from the mold of emptiness--
the gilded hubbub, the bursting monument.
How an Angel would stamp out their market of solaces,
set up alongside their church bought to order:
clean and closed and woeful as a post office on Sunday.
Outside, though, there's always the billowing of the fair.
Swings of Freedom! High-divers and Jugglers of Zeal!
And the shooting gallery with its figures of idiot Happiness
which jump, quiver, and fall with a tinny ring
whenever some better marksman scores. Onward he lurches from cheers
to change; for booths courting each curious taste
are drumming and barking. And then--for adults only--
a special show: how money breeds, its anatomy, not some charade:
money's genitals, everything, the whole act
from beginning to end--educational and guaranteed to make you
virile.........
....Oh, but just beyond that,
behind the last of the billboards, plastered with signs for "Deathless,"
that bitter beer which tastes sweet to those drinking it
as long as they have fresh distractions to chew...,
just beyond those boards, just on the other side: things are REAL.
Children play, lovers hold each other, off in the shadows,
pensive, on the meager grass, while dogs obey nature.
The youth is drawn farther on; perhaps he's fallen in love
with a young Lament.....He pursues her, enters meadowland. She says:
"It's a long way. We live out there..."
Where? And the youth follows.
Something in her bearing stirs him. Her shoulders, neck--,
perhaps she's of noble descent. Still, he leaves her, turns around,
glances back, waves...What's the use? She's a Lament.
Only the youthful dead, in the first state
of timeless equanimity, the phase of the unburdening,
follow her with loving steps. The girls
she waits for and befriends. Gently lets them see
the things that adorn her. Pearls of grief and the delicate
veils of suffrance.--When with young men
she walks on in silence.
Later, though, in the valley where they live, an older one, one of the
elder Laments,
adopts the youth when he asks questions:--Long ago,
she says, we Laments were a powerful race. Our forefathers
worked the mines in those giant mountains; among humans
sometimes you'll find a fragment of polished primeval grief,
or, from an old volcano, a slag of petrified wrath.
Yes, it came from here. We used to be rich.--
And she guides him quietly through the wide landscapes of Laments,
shows him the columns of temples, or the ruins
of those strongholds from which, long ago, Lament-Kings
wisely governed the land. Shows him the tall
trees of tears and the fields of flowering melancholy
(the living know them only as tender leaves):
shows him the animals of sorrow, grazing,--and sometimes
a bird startles, flies low through their lifted gazes, extends
into the distance the ancient glyph of its desolate cry.--
At evening she leads him out to the ancestral tombs
of the House of Lament, those of the sybils and the dire prophets.
But as night approaches, they move more slowly, until
suddenly, rising up moon-like, there appears: the great sepulchre
that watches over everything. Twin brother
to the one on the Nile, the exalted Sphinx--: visage
of the hidden chamber.
And they marvel at that kingly head, which silently,
for all time, has weighed the human face
in the stars' balance.
And higher, the stars. New ones. The stars of the Land of Pain.
Slowly the Lament names them: "There, look-
the Rider, the Staff, and that constellation with so many stars
they call: Calyx. And then, farther, toward the pole:
Cradle; Path; Puppet; Window; The Burning Book.
But in the southern sky, pure as if held in the palm
of a sacred hand: that clear, gleaming M
that means Mothers......"
But the dead youth must go on, and the elder Lament
leads him in silence as far as the wide ravine,
where they see shimmering in the moonlight:
the Font of Joy. She names it
reverently, saying, "Among the living
it becomes a powerful stream."
They stand at the foot of the range.
And she embraces him there, weeping.
He climbs on alone, into the mountains of primeval grief.
And no step rings back from that soundless fate.
But suppose the endless dead were to awake in us some emblem:
they might point to the catkins hanging
from the empty hazel trees, or direct us to the rain
descending on black earth in early spring.
And we, who always think of happiness
rising, would feel the emotion
that almost baffles us
when a happy thing falls.
Monday, November 29, 2004
THIS LOVE
[so contrary that it almost seems perverse]
HAS OVERCOME ME
[i sometimes have to fight the urge to gag]
AND IF I TRIED TO RUN AWAY
[i know i couldn't breathe outside its midst]
IT'D BREAK MY LEGS
[i'd do anything to ride upon Your back]
[so contrary that it almost seems perverse]
HAS OVERCOME ME
[i sometimes have to fight the urge to gag]
AND IF I TRIED TO RUN AWAY
[i know i couldn't breathe outside its midst]
IT'D BREAK MY LEGS
[i'd do anything to ride upon Your back]
Sunday, November 28, 2004
How to live richly #3:
Get your feet wet.
My freshman year I went with Chi Alpha to the beach for Spring Retreat, and God really spoke to me with the ocean. There was this storm offshore and the sea was all wild and winter was still hanging in the air, and I was laughing on the beach with a dozen new friends when I was struck by a bolt of lightning offshore.
Well, I wasn't literally struck, but impressed, rather.
Suddenly the ocean seemed so powerful and terrifying, a monster to run from before I was devoured. And at the same time it was the one place I wanted to be more than any other, the safest place in the world. I wanted to run away to the mountains and never look back. I wanted to sit on the dry sand and stare at the waves, hypnotized. I wanted to play in the surf, flirting with the waves, always in control of how wet I got. I wanted to dive in and swim away from shore until I couldn't stay afloat anymore.
All at once.
And I realized that I felt a lot of the same things about God.
He was kind enough to minister to me in various ways throughout the following year, and this picture was taken at the next Spring Retreat. As you can see, I'd come to be a lot more comfortable with the ocean, and you'd be correct to assume that my relationship with its creator had improved in like manner.
Wit
The second movie on my list of favorites in my Blogger profile is a small film done by HBO a few years ago called Wit. Emma Thompson stars as Vivian Bearing, who has just been diagnosed with stage four metastatic ovarian cancer--there is no stage five. She is known as the most reputable scholar of John Donne's Holy Sonnets in academia: a force to be reckoned with.
So, Donne wrote all of these complicated poems about the meaning of life and the mystery of salvation, trying to work out in his brilliant little head what can only be understood with the heart. Vivian found great purpose in dissecting these contemplations, in the abstract, but now that she's faced with her own literal death she's having a hard time coping with the pressure.
It's a beautiful movie.
I watched it tonight (besides the first two parts of The Lord of the Rings, it is the only dvd I own yet) because I needed to be reminded of how precious life is and all. Listening to the music over the final credits, I wanted to share a scene with y'all.
In the beginning of the movie, Vivian is remembering a conference she had as an undergraduate with her professor and mentor, Dr. EM Ashford:
Your essay on Holy Sonnet 6, Miss Bearing, is a melodrama with a veneer of scholarship unworthy of you, to say nothing of Donne. Do it again.
Begin with the text, Miss Bearing, not with a feeling.
"Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe"
You've entirely missed the point of the poem, because, I must say, you've used an edition of the text that is inauthentically punctuated....
Do you think that the punctuation of the last line of this sonnet is merely an insignificant detail? The sonnet begins with a valiant struggle with death, calling on all the forces of intellect and drama to vanquish the enemy. But it is ultimately about overcoming the seemingly insuperable barriers separating life, death, and eternal life. In the edition you chose, this profoundly simple meaning is sacrificed to hysterical punctuation:
And Death--capital D--shall be no more--semicolon--Death--capital D, comma--thou shalt die--exclamation mark
Now if you go in for this sort of thing, I suggest you take up Shakespeare.
Gardner's edition of the text returns to the Westmueller Manuscript source of 1610, not for sentimental reasons, I assure you, but because Helen Gardner is a scholar. It reads:
And death shall be no more--comma--death thou shalt die
Nothing but a breath, a comma, separates life from life everlasting. Very simple, really. With the original punctuation restored, Death is no longer something to act out on a stage with exclamation marks. It is a comma, a pause.
This way--the uncompromising way--one learns something from the poem, wouldn't you say? Life, death, soul, God, past, present: not insuperable barriers. Not semicolons. Just a comma.
Vivian recites the complete sonnet in the final scene, just after she's died.
It goes like this:
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better than thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more--comma--death thou shalt die.
So, Donne wrote all of these complicated poems about the meaning of life and the mystery of salvation, trying to work out in his brilliant little head what can only be understood with the heart. Vivian found great purpose in dissecting these contemplations, in the abstract, but now that she's faced with her own literal death she's having a hard time coping with the pressure.
It's a beautiful movie.
I watched it tonight (besides the first two parts of The Lord of the Rings, it is the only dvd I own yet) because I needed to be reminded of how precious life is and all. Listening to the music over the final credits, I wanted to share a scene with y'all.
In the beginning of the movie, Vivian is remembering a conference she had as an undergraduate with her professor and mentor, Dr. EM Ashford:
Your essay on Holy Sonnet 6, Miss Bearing, is a melodrama with a veneer of scholarship unworthy of you, to say nothing of Donne. Do it again.
Begin with the text, Miss Bearing, not with a feeling.
"Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe"
You've entirely missed the point of the poem, because, I must say, you've used an edition of the text that is inauthentically punctuated....
Do you think that the punctuation of the last line of this sonnet is merely an insignificant detail? The sonnet begins with a valiant struggle with death, calling on all the forces of intellect and drama to vanquish the enemy. But it is ultimately about overcoming the seemingly insuperable barriers separating life, death, and eternal life. In the edition you chose, this profoundly simple meaning is sacrificed to hysterical punctuation:
And Death--capital D--shall be no more--semicolon--Death--capital D, comma--thou shalt die--exclamation mark
Now if you go in for this sort of thing, I suggest you take up Shakespeare.
Gardner's edition of the text returns to the Westmueller Manuscript source of 1610, not for sentimental reasons, I assure you, but because Helen Gardner is a scholar. It reads:
And death shall be no more--comma--death thou shalt die
Nothing but a breath, a comma, separates life from life everlasting. Very simple, really. With the original punctuation restored, Death is no longer something to act out on a stage with exclamation marks. It is a comma, a pause.
This way--the uncompromising way--one learns something from the poem, wouldn't you say? Life, death, soul, God, past, present: not insuperable barriers. Not semicolons. Just a comma.
Vivian recites the complete sonnet in the final scene, just after she's died.
It goes like this:
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better than thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more--comma--death thou shalt die.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Widespread outbreak leaves Auburn students helpless!!!
I think I've isolated the pathogen responsible for the general malaise on campus as of late: Vivio apatheticus.
It's a nasty bug.
All the trademark symptoms have been noted: headache, depression, hypertension, blurry vision, sleeplessness, irrational behavior, insatiable appetite for caffeinated beverages, low test scores....
It's a textbook case, and it's pretty serious. As of yet there are no effective antibiotics. We can only treat the symptoms, with fluids and plenty of rest.
If we want to be rid of this one we're going to have to pray in faith for healing!
It's a nasty bug.
All the trademark symptoms have been noted: headache, depression, hypertension, blurry vision, sleeplessness, irrational behavior, insatiable appetite for caffeinated beverages, low test scores....
It's a textbook case, and it's pretty serious. As of yet there are no effective antibiotics. We can only treat the symptoms, with fluids and plenty of rest.
If we want to be rid of this one we're going to have to pray in faith for healing!
Monday, November 15, 2004
This is for Stacey, my Supermom sister!
A friend showed me this.
I couldn't stop laughing.
Maybe you could use this with Bethany in a few years? :)
But it's a good reminder for all of us. :)
I couldn't stop laughing.
Maybe you could use this with Bethany in a few years? :)
But it's a good reminder for all of us. :)
In which I write an essay on Statistics so as to avoid learning about it.
“This is your first statistics lesson: They’re all a bunch of lies. Don’t trust ‘em.”
--Blaine Hollingsworth, my Statistics professor
I’ve long felt a vague, unsettling sort of doubt that suspected this to be true, which is partly why I’ve put off taking the class for so long. Of course, Blaine was only referring to the “2 out of 3 dentists agree” kind of propaganda that is hurled at us in advertisements everyday, but I automatically distrust all forms of probability. It bothers me that our culture seems to make its decisions not out of faith but possibility, manipulating the facts into two or three discrete envelopes of outcome: support or rejection; success or failure; yes, no, undecided. But does it ever happen so categorically?
I understand that the sort of calculations we’ve been doing in STAT 2510 aren't like that (“Let’s see...stage four metastasized ovarian cancer: four months to live, 10% chance of survival...” like it’s a crapshoot or something), but are actually pretty legitimate and even helpful within the proper context. Bell curves and standardizations shine perspective on those silly Scantrons we fill in just before our next matriculation, and any form of research is meaningless without a mean and standard deviation. We’re learning how to manipulate the raw data into something that we can work with, to form and support the hypotheses that create theories. It’s all well and good. But it still gets me to thinking about some greater issues.
I guess my problem is that, in the non-science world, when we use probability it’s because we’re focusing on the negative. We only make a percentage of likely success when we don’t believe we’re going to get what we want, as if we’re trying to trick our dying hope into hanging on for just a few more minutes.
My main problem deals with these ‘likelihoods of survival’ you always hear when someone gets sick. I suppose when I get to medical school I’ll understand this concept better, and I imagine I’ll even end up using it myself. But from my current stance (which, I admit, might best be termed "ignorance"), it doesn’t seem right. What do these numbers mean? That 90% of women with stage four metastasized ovarian cancer have died within four months of diagnosis? What does that matter? Every person’s different.
It’s true that the universe is kept in line by rigid natural laws. We think ourselves very clever for having come up with complicated formulas to help us understand the basic laws of physics and human behavior, at least in theory. But since a large sample size is required before one can confidently calculate a probability, can we ever apply that number to the individual? All it tells us is how likely we are to succeed at achieving some desired outcome. But it's just a likelihood. A chance. There’s always a chance for either outcome--even if it’s what we’d have to call a miracle--or even a result entirely different from the two we had defined.
The guy who designed the Epcott Center hated probability. He said it’s an artificial construct created to help us deal with the fact that we don’t understand all the laws that govern the universe. The outcome of every event could, theoretically, be predicted precisely, if only we could comprehend all of the outside forces acting upon it.
We can certainly calculate how fast a ball will hit the ground when it is dropped from a balcony. We’ve tested that one, determined the forces acting upon it, and developed a formula to tell us, without fail, so long as no unforeseen forces should disrupt the defined system, how long its trip will take. But a human life isn’t as simple as a body free-falling through a constant gravitational field. There’s something intangible there that defies the laws of the universe, something connected to the higher Power who designed those laws and is free to manipulate them as He sees fit. Since we don’t understand such forces, we spend years concocting formulas to help us feel better about our actions. These ratios of success allow us to make informed decisions, let us act "cautiously".
Maybe we should try not to be so cautious about everything.
Blaine tried to get us to understand the benefits of probability with this illustration:
On the old game show Let’s Make a Deal, Monty Hall would present an audience member with three closed doors. Behind one of these doors was a fashionable new car, and behind each of the other two doors stood a wild goat. If you were so fortunate as to be afforded this opportunity to acquire a new vehicle, you would stand up in your outlandish costume and chat briefly with Monty before he asked you to select the door you believed to be hiding the new car. You would have a one-in-three chance of picking the right door, agreed? Pretty good odds. Without opening the door you selected, Monty, who knew the positions of the car and goats, would offer to open a different door, one that was certain to be hiding a goat. You would then be left with two doors to choose from, and Monty would give you the option to change your mind, if you had begun to doubt your initial instincts.
So, Blaine’s question to the class was this: should you change your mind and pick the other closed door, or should you trust your gut instinct and stick with the first door you picked?
I’m a firm believer in the legitimacy of the sixth sense, so I was slightly offended when he declared that only a fool would choose to stay with his first decision.
Mathematically, though, he’s right:
When you make your first choice, you’re working with a 1/3 likelihood of choosing the correct door. Say Door #2 holds the car. Whether you pick Door #1, #2, or #3, Monty will be able to show you a door with a goat, because he knows where each one is. If you pick #2, he can show you #1 or #3. If you pick #1 he’ll show you #3, and if you pick #3 he’ll show you #1.
So. Say you pick #1. Monty shows you the goat behind #3. Now you’re given the chance to change your mind and pick #2.
When there are two doors left—one which hides the car and one which hides a goat—you will only have a 1/2 chance of choosing the car IF YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND. This is because, even though you now have new information that increases your likelihood of choosing the right door, your first pick was made under the old information about the location of the car (that is, no information whatsoever) when your chances of success were 1/3, and the only way to utilize your new knowledge of the situation is to change your mind. You are then picking from Door #1 and Door #2. If you stick with #1, more confident of your decision now that #3 is out of the picture, you’re STILL picking from 1, 2, and 3, because you picked #1 from the three of them. It seems illogical, but really it’s true!
In this case, you changed from #1 to #2 and won the car. You were just as likely to have chosen #3, seen #1, and changed to #2, winning again. And just as likely to have chosen #2, seen #1, and changed to #3, losing.
So see, as long as you change your mind after Monty opens the door, you have a 2/3 chance of getting it right. If you stick doggedly with your gut feelings, you have a 1/3 chance of winning. Compare 33% with 66% and the difference is significant.
Congratulations! You have learned to manipulate the laws of probability to your advantage. It’s time to graduate to the crapshoot.
If you still don't get it, maybe a demonstration would help.
Blaine puts his faith in probability. He doesn’t understand the greater forces at work in the universe. But this is a petty example. What about the woman with stage four metastasized ovarian cancer? Should she resign herself to death, tacitly including herself in the overwhelmingly large bracket of failure?
And anyway, who says that the outcome of an illness is divided so cleanly into success (life) and failure (death)? To the doctor, I suppose the death of the patient would be a failure to defeat the cancer, and the survival of the patient would mean he was successful in clearing it from her body. But for the human being that is most powerfully effected (we call her the patient) it’s far less cut-and-dry than win or lose, live or die. She’s had a long life full of all sorts of events with various sorts of outcomes, and a failed attempt isn’t always losing.
Maybe it’s arrogant of me, but I don’t like being shoved into a large random sample like that: it only holds true when it’s repeated hundreds of times. If you’re only gonna be on Let’s Make a Deal once in your whole life, do you have the luxury of hoping in a mathematical concept?
To wrap it up, if I must boil this down to a single thesis, I think it's this: Statistical estimates are all well and good when dealing with objects and fixed outcomes, but we shouldn’t be too quick to put our own lives into the same number-crunching machine. There’re too many variables.
Who are the people who perform all these calculations, anyway? Are they real people, even? Sitting in sterile laboratories testing every possible event for every possible outcome, cooking up statistics to be put in some arcane database so that insurance companies can blackmail us with the fear of possibility? Why don’t they find something more helpful to do with their time?
Plant trees. Say prayers. LIVE LIFE!
Okay, Blaine, I’ll take your silly tests, if I must. I’ll learn to crunch the numbers. I’ll even change my mind when Monty shows me the first goat. But I won’t tell my patients how likely they are to die. I’ll tell them how much I want them to live...and not just keep their hearts beating, but offer them lives of abundance and joy.
--Blaine Hollingsworth, my Statistics professor
I’ve long felt a vague, unsettling sort of doubt that suspected this to be true, which is partly why I’ve put off taking the class for so long. Of course, Blaine was only referring to the “2 out of 3 dentists agree” kind of propaganda that is hurled at us in advertisements everyday, but I automatically distrust all forms of probability. It bothers me that our culture seems to make its decisions not out of faith but possibility, manipulating the facts into two or three discrete envelopes of outcome: support or rejection; success or failure; yes, no, undecided. But does it ever happen so categorically?
I understand that the sort of calculations we’ve been doing in STAT 2510 aren't like that (“Let’s see...stage four metastasized ovarian cancer: four months to live, 10% chance of survival...” like it’s a crapshoot or something), but are actually pretty legitimate and even helpful within the proper context. Bell curves and standardizations shine perspective on those silly Scantrons we fill in just before our next matriculation, and any form of research is meaningless without a mean and standard deviation. We’re learning how to manipulate the raw data into something that we can work with, to form and support the hypotheses that create theories. It’s all well and good. But it still gets me to thinking about some greater issues.
I guess my problem is that, in the non-science world, when we use probability it’s because we’re focusing on the negative. We only make a percentage of likely success when we don’t believe we’re going to get what we want, as if we’re trying to trick our dying hope into hanging on for just a few more minutes.
My main problem deals with these ‘likelihoods of survival’ you always hear when someone gets sick. I suppose when I get to medical school I’ll understand this concept better, and I imagine I’ll even end up using it myself. But from my current stance (which, I admit, might best be termed "ignorance"), it doesn’t seem right. What do these numbers mean? That 90% of women with stage four metastasized ovarian cancer have died within four months of diagnosis? What does that matter? Every person’s different.
It’s true that the universe is kept in line by rigid natural laws. We think ourselves very clever for having come up with complicated formulas to help us understand the basic laws of physics and human behavior, at least in theory. But since a large sample size is required before one can confidently calculate a probability, can we ever apply that number to the individual? All it tells us is how likely we are to succeed at achieving some desired outcome. But it's just a likelihood. A chance. There’s always a chance for either outcome--even if it’s what we’d have to call a miracle--or even a result entirely different from the two we had defined.
The guy who designed the Epcott Center hated probability. He said it’s an artificial construct created to help us deal with the fact that we don’t understand all the laws that govern the universe. The outcome of every event could, theoretically, be predicted precisely, if only we could comprehend all of the outside forces acting upon it.
We can certainly calculate how fast a ball will hit the ground when it is dropped from a balcony. We’ve tested that one, determined the forces acting upon it, and developed a formula to tell us, without fail, so long as no unforeseen forces should disrupt the defined system, how long its trip will take. But a human life isn’t as simple as a body free-falling through a constant gravitational field. There’s something intangible there that defies the laws of the universe, something connected to the higher Power who designed those laws and is free to manipulate them as He sees fit. Since we don’t understand such forces, we spend years concocting formulas to help us feel better about our actions. These ratios of success allow us to make informed decisions, let us act "cautiously".
Maybe we should try not to be so cautious about everything.
Blaine tried to get us to understand the benefits of probability with this illustration:
On the old game show Let’s Make a Deal, Monty Hall would present an audience member with three closed doors. Behind one of these doors was a fashionable new car, and behind each of the other two doors stood a wild goat. If you were so fortunate as to be afforded this opportunity to acquire a new vehicle, you would stand up in your outlandish costume and chat briefly with Monty before he asked you to select the door you believed to be hiding the new car. You would have a one-in-three chance of picking the right door, agreed? Pretty good odds. Without opening the door you selected, Monty, who knew the positions of the car and goats, would offer to open a different door, one that was certain to be hiding a goat. You would then be left with two doors to choose from, and Monty would give you the option to change your mind, if you had begun to doubt your initial instincts.
So, Blaine’s question to the class was this: should you change your mind and pick the other closed door, or should you trust your gut instinct and stick with the first door you picked?
I’m a firm believer in the legitimacy of the sixth sense, so I was slightly offended when he declared that only a fool would choose to stay with his first decision.
Mathematically, though, he’s right:
When you make your first choice, you’re working with a 1/3 likelihood of choosing the correct door. Say Door #2 holds the car. Whether you pick Door #1, #2, or #3, Monty will be able to show you a door with a goat, because he knows where each one is. If you pick #2, he can show you #1 or #3. If you pick #1 he’ll show you #3, and if you pick #3 he’ll show you #1.
So. Say you pick #1. Monty shows you the goat behind #3. Now you’re given the chance to change your mind and pick #2.
When there are two doors left—one which hides the car and one which hides a goat—you will only have a 1/2 chance of choosing the car IF YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND. This is because, even though you now have new information that increases your likelihood of choosing the right door, your first pick was made under the old information about the location of the car (that is, no information whatsoever) when your chances of success were 1/3, and the only way to utilize your new knowledge of the situation is to change your mind. You are then picking from Door #1 and Door #2. If you stick with #1, more confident of your decision now that #3 is out of the picture, you’re STILL picking from 1, 2, and 3, because you picked #1 from the three of them. It seems illogical, but really it’s true!
In this case, you changed from #1 to #2 and won the car. You were just as likely to have chosen #3, seen #1, and changed to #2, winning again. And just as likely to have chosen #2, seen #1, and changed to #3, losing.
So see, as long as you change your mind after Monty opens the door, you have a 2/3 chance of getting it right. If you stick doggedly with your gut feelings, you have a 1/3 chance of winning. Compare 33% with 66% and the difference is significant.
Congratulations! You have learned to manipulate the laws of probability to your advantage. It’s time to graduate to the crapshoot.
If you still don't get it, maybe a demonstration would help.
Blaine puts his faith in probability. He doesn’t understand the greater forces at work in the universe. But this is a petty example. What about the woman with stage four metastasized ovarian cancer? Should she resign herself to death, tacitly including herself in the overwhelmingly large bracket of failure?
And anyway, who says that the outcome of an illness is divided so cleanly into success (life) and failure (death)? To the doctor, I suppose the death of the patient would be a failure to defeat the cancer, and the survival of the patient would mean he was successful in clearing it from her body. But for the human being that is most powerfully effected (we call her the patient) it’s far less cut-and-dry than win or lose, live or die. She’s had a long life full of all sorts of events with various sorts of outcomes, and a failed attempt isn’t always losing.
Maybe it’s arrogant of me, but I don’t like being shoved into a large random sample like that: it only holds true when it’s repeated hundreds of times. If you’re only gonna be on Let’s Make a Deal once in your whole life, do you have the luxury of hoping in a mathematical concept?
To wrap it up, if I must boil this down to a single thesis, I think it's this: Statistical estimates are all well and good when dealing with objects and fixed outcomes, but we shouldn’t be too quick to put our own lives into the same number-crunching machine. There’re too many variables.
Who are the people who perform all these calculations, anyway? Are they real people, even? Sitting in sterile laboratories testing every possible event for every possible outcome, cooking up statistics to be put in some arcane database so that insurance companies can blackmail us with the fear of possibility? Why don’t they find something more helpful to do with their time?
Plant trees. Say prayers. LIVE LIFE!
Okay, Blaine, I’ll take your silly tests, if I must. I’ll learn to crunch the numbers. I’ll even change my mind when Monty shows me the first goat. But I won’t tell my patients how likely they are to die. I’ll tell them how much I want them to live...and not just keep their hearts beating, but offer them lives of abundance and joy.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Life goal #91:
Useless Defenses
It's been about two months since Hurricane Ivan threatened the loveliest village on the plains, but you can still see vestiges of that strange week around town. We weren't sure how bad it was going to be, but our professors inspired us with horror stories from Opal, and Tuesday afternoon big X's adorned many storefronts and upstairs windows. Some people got really elaborate, as if duct tape was the new lamb's blood, heavy winds the Angel of Death, and furniture the firstborn sons of Auburn. Pass us over is what it did--all of us.
The tape was an unnecessary precaution, in the end.
This morning I noticed an upstairs window that still had tape all over it. I chuckled with the hindsight that said it was all useless anyway. Maybe the same futility of putting it up is what now makes taking it down seem like a wasted effort.
But then I realized--I do it, too: build defenses against potential damage, based on past losses. Then I forget to take them down when the danger's past (or never comes), and I can't see past my own barriers.
You do it, too, don't you? All the time.
Let's take the tape off the windows: the storm's never as bad as we anticipate!
The tape was an unnecessary precaution, in the end.
This morning I noticed an upstairs window that still had tape all over it. I chuckled with the hindsight that said it was all useless anyway. Maybe the same futility of putting it up is what now makes taking it down seem like a wasted effort.
But then I realized--I do it, too: build defenses against potential damage, based on past losses. Then I forget to take them down when the danger's past (or never comes), and I can't see past my own barriers.
You do it, too, don't you? All the time.
Let's take the tape off the windows: the storm's never as bad as we anticipate!
Monday, November 08, 2004
At Least I Got a Car
There are some songs that speak straight into our lives, such that we can play them on repeat all night long and never get over the importance of the message. When I hear this song, the core of everything I've felt since I left home comes rushing into my face and makes me feel both transient and at home forever.
This is Don Chaffer of Waterdeep
A friend of mine dropped out of school
He didn’t tell no one. He just left one day
Folks said he was actin’ like a fool
But he said, “I was about to go crazy and I was already foolish anyway
And what did I have to lose? What did I have to lose?”
He took off to Wisconsin late that night
Wisconsin, where he figured he could blend in
He said nothing felt good under him- not the road,
Not the tuition money in his pocket,
Not really even the car he was driving in
And what did he have to lose? What did he have to lose?
He said,
"At least I got a car I can drive tonight
I know it ain’t much but it makes me feel alright
And alright ain’t good, but alright’s alright
At least I got a car I can drive tonight."
Oh, college was hard for me and my friends
We all felt like little kids but they said we couldn’t act that way
I knew I was supposed to change
But changing’s hard and it was easier just to play video games
What did we have to lose? What did we have to lose?
We said,
"At least I got a car I can drive tonight
I know it ain’t much but it makes me feel alright
And alright ain’t good, but alright’s alright
At least I got a car I can drive tonight"
Man, sometimes don’t you want to just sit still?
'Cause you can only run so fast or drive so far
And home might feel like a funny idea that you never understood
But you want it more than you want the car
Cause you’re tired of how the seats feel
And you’re tired of the steering wheel
And you’d buy a new car but
The last thing you want is something new
Last thing you want is something new
Going home feels like the thing you ought to do
Cause You can only drive so far
Man I wish I had a home tonight
Somewhere I could feel more than alright
And alright ain’t bad, but alright’s just alright
And, man, I wish I had a home tonight
If you like this intelligent brand of Godly wisdom and want to hear more of the same, you can get the album (with a full band version of this song) here. It rocks my face off from start to finish, with all of Waterdeep's famously tasteful production and retro-cool soundscapes--and even older Truths.
This is Don Chaffer of Waterdeep
A friend of mine dropped out of school
He didn’t tell no one. He just left one day
Folks said he was actin’ like a fool
But he said, “I was about to go crazy and I was already foolish anyway
And what did I have to lose? What did I have to lose?”
He took off to Wisconsin late that night
Wisconsin, where he figured he could blend in
He said nothing felt good under him- not the road,
Not the tuition money in his pocket,
Not really even the car he was driving in
And what did he have to lose? What did he have to lose?
He said,
"At least I got a car I can drive tonight
I know it ain’t much but it makes me feel alright
And alright ain’t good, but alright’s alright
At least I got a car I can drive tonight."
Oh, college was hard for me and my friends
We all felt like little kids but they said we couldn’t act that way
I knew I was supposed to change
But changing’s hard and it was easier just to play video games
What did we have to lose? What did we have to lose?
We said,
"At least I got a car I can drive tonight
I know it ain’t much but it makes me feel alright
And alright ain’t good, but alright’s alright
At least I got a car I can drive tonight"
Man, sometimes don’t you want to just sit still?
'Cause you can only run so fast or drive so far
And home might feel like a funny idea that you never understood
But you want it more than you want the car
Cause you’re tired of how the seats feel
And you’re tired of the steering wheel
And you’d buy a new car but
The last thing you want is something new
Last thing you want is something new
Going home feels like the thing you ought to do
Cause You can only drive so far
Man I wish I had a home tonight
Somewhere I could feel more than alright
And alright ain’t bad, but alright’s just alright
And, man, I wish I had a home tonight
If you like this intelligent brand of Godly wisdom and want to hear more of the same, you can get the album (with a full band version of this song) here. It rocks my face off from start to finish, with all of Waterdeep's famously tasteful production and retro-cool soundscapes--and even older Truths.
Friday, November 05, 2004
9.8 m/sec/sec
Do you ever feel like you're escaping the gravity that keeps you connected to the rest of the world? Or maybe it's the gravity losing its hold on you.
I don't suppose I've ever really been what one might consider a "normal" person with "mainstream" interests and beliefs, but I'm not especially unusual. I'm okay with not being interested in the things that most people are. But lately I've been catching myself trying to participate happily in society, and deriving pleasure in all the wrong ways.
I went to the game with my dad a few weeks back for some male bonding. As we were ascending the helix to the upper deck I realized I was enjoying myself, thrilled to be in the stadium during a sporting event. The view from the top of campus was beautiful: it was one of those cool bright days where light flashes from the dancing leaves all the way to the horizon, and the sun makes you sneeze when you tilt your head wrong. The band warming up below started this mesmerizing rhythm and the announcer guy was droning stats and predictions through the loudspeaker like an auctioneer. People were selling peanuts and cokes in little trays they carried on straps around their necks as clouds rushed through the sky like fish. I don't think I really saw a single play of the game. I was too busy enjoying myself.
And the American flag was flapping around elegantly in the wind. I felt a rush of pride when I stood up for the national anthem. But I never sing the anthem and I didn't sing it then: I don't salute pieces of cloth and I won't pledge my allegiance to anything but Jesus.
And then on Election Day I strolled into the community rec center with a grin on my face. I asked the little old lady for my ballot and crossed the gym floor under grade-school yellow light, charmed by the red, white and blue and all the voters at their booths. But the only names I knew on the ballot were for president. I made the rest of the choices blindly, and I wouldn't have it any other way, because I just don't care about politics.
Do you see? I'm not enjoying being a part of the events themselves or appreciating what they're supposed to represent. I'm just smiling giddily at how they look, what they represent to me. It's like I'm hovering around right above the crowd of humanity, enjoying the view, but unable to land and take part in the scenery.
Maybe there's just not enough gravity to keep me here.
If I float away before you see me again, have a nice day!
I don't suppose I've ever really been what one might consider a "normal" person with "mainstream" interests and beliefs, but I'm not especially unusual. I'm okay with not being interested in the things that most people are. But lately I've been catching myself trying to participate happily in society, and deriving pleasure in all the wrong ways.
I went to the game with my dad a few weeks back for some male bonding. As we were ascending the helix to the upper deck I realized I was enjoying myself, thrilled to be in the stadium during a sporting event. The view from the top of campus was beautiful: it was one of those cool bright days where light flashes from the dancing leaves all the way to the horizon, and the sun makes you sneeze when you tilt your head wrong. The band warming up below started this mesmerizing rhythm and the announcer guy was droning stats and predictions through the loudspeaker like an auctioneer. People were selling peanuts and cokes in little trays they carried on straps around their necks as clouds rushed through the sky like fish. I don't think I really saw a single play of the game. I was too busy enjoying myself.
And the American flag was flapping around elegantly in the wind. I felt a rush of pride when I stood up for the national anthem. But I never sing the anthem and I didn't sing it then: I don't salute pieces of cloth and I won't pledge my allegiance to anything but Jesus.
And then on Election Day I strolled into the community rec center with a grin on my face. I asked the little old lady for my ballot and crossed the gym floor under grade-school yellow light, charmed by the red, white and blue and all the voters at their booths. But the only names I knew on the ballot were for president. I made the rest of the choices blindly, and I wouldn't have it any other way, because I just don't care about politics.
Do you see? I'm not enjoying being a part of the events themselves or appreciating what they're supposed to represent. I'm just smiling giddily at how they look, what they represent to me. It's like I'm hovering around right above the crowd of humanity, enjoying the view, but unable to land and take part in the scenery.
Maybe there's just not enough gravity to keep me here.
If I float away before you see me again, have a nice day!
I did this!
Hey guys! Look what I did!
I'm editor of The Honors Eagle this year.
I got the people to write the articles,
I proofread them, I layed them all out in Publisher,
and I'm proud of what's come out of it. :)
I know it's not a terribly exciting publication.
But if you're bored...
I'm editor of The Honors Eagle this year.
I got the people to write the articles,
I proofread them, I layed them all out in Publisher,
and I'm proud of what's come out of it. :)
I know it's not a terribly exciting publication.
But if you're bored...
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
How to live richly #2
Speak softly.
One time at a bonfire Megan Garland asked me to play a game with her. Choosing people one by one, we looked long and hard and named everyone's best features--physical and personal, what we really liked about them. They didn't even know we were doing it.
It was better than s'mores. :)
The time it is a-changin'!
I always hate the time change. Sunday and Monday were so disorienting! Since I woke up at one o'clock on Sunday it was dark within four hours. Ben came over at dusk and we ended up moving around town randomly, stopping in different places for an hour or two before moving on aimlessly, and it felt like the night went on forever. I had fun, but I caught myself wondering if eternal darkness had descended on the earth, some sort of plague for humanity's reproval or something? :)
And Monday the sun just wasn't in its normal cycle, so every time I'd change classes it felt like I was in the wrong place. Am I unusual to be so sensitive to the angle of light, or is that innate to all humans? Regardless, I felt like crap on Sunday and Monday, like I was Emma Bovary or Anna Karenina in the first chapters of our tragedies, peering over the edge of a cliff into a hopeless abyss of destruction.
Praise be to Jesus, I recovered quickly. Today it's been overcast, so I don't have to deal with the sunlight trying to screw me up. It was a momentary insanity, probably a violent reaction against all the good that was done in my life the previous week. This guy came into town and I heard him preach three different times, got him to pray for me. I got to pray with different people and really had a great time ministering to folks. It was kind of an encouragement for me to begin stepping out more, take the gifts God has given me and dispense them into the world: that's what they're for! So, I don't think the devil liked that. He wanted to trip me up.
But God sent the clouds to reset my equilibrium. :)
On the bright side, there's something magical about the time change.
It gives me the same feeling I had that Tuesday afternoon in September: I had been up at Taylor's with Tamara studying for that Friday's test in Medical Micro. Our heads were spinning with a dozen very serious-sounding, but relatively meaningless, italicized, multi-syllabled terms like Erysipelothrix rhusiopathiae and the coffee was on the verge of running out when I got a call from my mother. What were my plans for the week now that all classes had been cancelled until Monday for Hurrican Ivan?
They were simple: Sleep! Play! Dance in the rain!
Laugh in the face of danger!
Oh...and study........a little.
It just gave me hope to think that maybe the adult world isn't all as serious and stuffy as it makes itself out to be. I could sense the childlike delight in everyone's eyes as we rushed to make our preparations for the unplanned vacation.
It just seems like every now and then the whole world of grown-ups winks at one another and takes a break together. Maybe we aren't all doomed to boredom, after all! :) Sleep an extra hour; take the week off; take some time to wind down. There's more to life than making money! :)
And Monday the sun just wasn't in its normal cycle, so every time I'd change classes it felt like I was in the wrong place. Am I unusual to be so sensitive to the angle of light, or is that innate to all humans? Regardless, I felt like crap on Sunday and Monday, like I was Emma Bovary or Anna Karenina in the first chapters of our tragedies, peering over the edge of a cliff into a hopeless abyss of destruction.
Praise be to Jesus, I recovered quickly. Today it's been overcast, so I don't have to deal with the sunlight trying to screw me up. It was a momentary insanity, probably a violent reaction against all the good that was done in my life the previous week. This guy came into town and I heard him preach three different times, got him to pray for me. I got to pray with different people and really had a great time ministering to folks. It was kind of an encouragement for me to begin stepping out more, take the gifts God has given me and dispense them into the world: that's what they're for! So, I don't think the devil liked that. He wanted to trip me up.
But God sent the clouds to reset my equilibrium. :)
On the bright side, there's something magical about the time change.
It gives me the same feeling I had that Tuesday afternoon in September: I had been up at Taylor's with Tamara studying for that Friday's test in Medical Micro. Our heads were spinning with a dozen very serious-sounding, but relatively meaningless, italicized, multi-syllabled terms like Erysipelothrix rhusiopathiae and the coffee was on the verge of running out when I got a call from my mother. What were my plans for the week now that all classes had been cancelled until Monday for Hurrican Ivan?
They were simple: Sleep! Play! Dance in the rain!
Laugh in the face of danger!
Oh...and study........a little.
It just gave me hope to think that maybe the adult world isn't all as serious and stuffy as it makes itself out to be. I could sense the childlike delight in everyone's eyes as we rushed to make our preparations for the unplanned vacation.
It just seems like every now and then the whole world of grown-ups winks at one another and takes a break together. Maybe we aren't all doomed to boredom, after all! :) Sleep an extra hour; take the week off; take some time to wind down. There's more to life than making money! :)
