Mything the Target

This just in: The Great Wall of China CANNOT be seen from the moon.   It’s not even all that visible from closer realms of space, and where it can be seen via a space shuttle flight, so can other human-made objects.   Trying to see the Great Wall of China from the moon is like trying to visualize a human hair from two miles away.  Besides, the terrain around the Great Wall is so similar in color to the wall itself that differentiating it from such a distance makes it even more implausible.

Up until yesterday afternoon, if you had asked me, “What is the only human-made structure visible from the moon?” I would have promptly and confidently answered, “The Great Wall of China,” likely followed by a smug look subconsciously requesting that you recognize my immense knowledge of all things.  I had heard this my entire life.  It is such a part of our collective consciousness that this “fact” had even made its way into textbooks at various times.

So, what intense desire drove me to look up this information?  My students, of course.

Last week in class, a student put forth the “known fact” that the word picnic came from the phrase “pick a nigger,” and that it was related to the days of lynching when white folks would pack a basket, grab a blanket, round up the kids, and head to a local meadow for some lynching entertainment.  I had a faint memory of having heard this before but was not up-t0-date enough on my etymological studies to be able to refute the claim.  But I are smart, and I knowed how to look stuff up.  Turns out this too is a “know that I know that I know” piece of information that just ain’t true.  Picnic derives from a 17th century French word and predates the horrible era of lynching in the United States.

Well, YOU KNOW that I had to share this with my students.  The thought of not correcting their belief in a false contention is the stuff of a teacher’s sleepless nights.  Urban legends abound; hence, the need for Snopes, not to mention universities.   Teaching people to research and ferret out the truth is at the core of what I do.

I would purport that a large portion (maybe in the 90th percentile) of what people believe falls into this because-that’s-what-I’ve-always-heard category.  Politics and religion are two areas particularly susceptible to this.  I remember when I first read Gilgamesh, an ancient Sumerian tale that includes the story of a great flood.  In several ways, this story echos the story of Noah in Genesis, including sending out a raven and a dove to see if the waters had receded.  The parallels are not nearly as interesting, however, as the fact that Gilgamesh predates Genesis by about 800 years, and it had been an oral tale long before it was actually carved in cuneiforms on clay tablets.  (Gilgamesh reigned as a Sumerian king about 1,500 years before the writing of the earliest parts of the Old Testament; his legend had been told for centuries even before it was finally written “in stone.”)

There are (many) other examples which might create the logical conclusion that the Old Testament should be approached by a metaphysical understanding at best and by a mythological understanding at least.

As I tell my students, I don’t really care what you believe as much as I care that you know WHY you believe WHAT you believe.   I encourage them to question preconceived notions, even when at first glance it might seem to shatter the foundations they once thought to be rock-solid.  What they just might end up with is an understanding of the world deeper than they could have at first imagined.

Either that or they could just say “Screw it,” and spend their summer vacation at the Creation Museum.    Their choice.

Reclaiming The Brain

I am not a profundity snob.  Truth can just as likely be found on a bumper sticker or a billboard as it can in the words of a yogi master.   And sometimes it can be spoken by a half-drunk, Irish actor.

At last night’s Golden Globe Awards, Colin Farrell gave an acceptance speech which included these words: “Curiosity is love.  Ignorance is nemesis.”    And my entire life suddenly made a certain kind of sense.

I have a need to know . . . everything.  If I read a novel in which a minor character is a bricklayer, I want to know how bricks are laid.  If I hear a friend talk about a trip to Austria, I will ask her questions about the land and people and customs and food and architecture.   If I watch a t.v. show on the birds of South America, I am likely to get on the Internet and research the lovable caique, a relatively small and brightly colored member of the parrot family.

My spiritual journey has centered around two big lessons.  One is that I must move from my head to my heart.  I am (news flash) a head person.  I can analyze everything, even emotions, which of course should be felt.   I am on a continuing journey to move the center of my attention about 18 inches south.   Because of this spiritual lesson, I have often condemned my great need to know.  After all, isn’t all “knowledge” kind of like a huge trivia game we use to pass the time in this incarnation?

The second big lesson of my spiritual journey is to be in the moment.  Being present means being aware, and being aware . . . wow . . . could mean caring about Austria when it comes up in conversation.   Being aware could mean having an understanding about what it means to be a bricklayer rather than just skimming over the word.   Being aware could be what made me Google caique.

Curiosity is love.  Ignorance is nemesis.

Thank you, Colin.