There was once a man who was sitting in a public place. Soon, he was joined by a friend, and finally, a third man approached. The third man didn't say anything, but stood there for a minute until he pulled out a package of cookies.
The first man couldn't help but think to himself, "Great--I was just getting a bit hungry!" He began to subtly smile as the third man opened the plastic package. The third man then pulled out a cookie and gave it to the second man. So the first man began to salivate as he soon expected that a cookie would soon be handed to him, too. He waited.
The third man did indeed pull another cookie out of his bag, but he did not hand it to the first man. Instead, he simply took a bite out of it. Then he closed the bag, returned it to his backpack, and walked away.
Naturally, the first man was confused. And he was now only hungrier than before.
Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Saturday, September 10, 2016
An Unprepared Student Takes a Final Exam
There once was a student who was enrolled in a class which had a comprehensive final exam. The student, however, did not study for the exam.
Eventually, the day of the test came. The student was nervous, and when he looked at the test, he stared at it, not knowing what answers to write. After hesitating for some time, the student resolved on a plan. He got up from the desk, test in hand, and walked up to the teacher, who was sitting in front of the classroom. "Excuse me," he said, "may I have a different test?"
Eventually, the day of the test came. The student was nervous, and when he looked at the test, he stared at it, not knowing what answers to write. After hesitating for some time, the student resolved on a plan. He got up from the desk, test in hand, and walked up to the teacher, who was sitting in front of the classroom. "Excuse me," he said, "may I have a different test?"
Thursday, June 16, 2016
A Pupil Desirous to Learn is Already a Master
There was once a great swordsman and teacher named Yagyu Tajima no kami Munenori. Tajima no kami was so renowned that he even taught the Shogun himself.
One day, one of the Shogun's personal guards came to Tajima no kami and asked him if he would teach him the art of the sword.
The master looked at the guard and then said slowly, "As I observe, you seem to already be a master of the art yourself; pray, tell me to what school you belong before we enter into the relationship of teacher and pupil."
The guardsman said, "I am ashamed to confess that I have never learned the art."
"Are you going to fool me?" the master said, "I am teacher to the honorable Shogun himself, and I know my judging eye never fails."
"I am sorry to defy your honor," he said, "but I really know nothing."
The master thought for a while and finally said, "If you say so, that must be so; but still I am sure of your being master of something, though I know not just what."
The guardsman then said, "If you insist, I will tell you this. There is one thing of which I can say I am a complete master. When I was still a boy, the thought came upon me that as a samurai I ought in no circumstances to be afraid of death, and I grappled with the problem of death for many years. Finally however, the problem has entirely ceased to worry me. May this be what you hint at?"
"Exactly!" exclaimed Tajima no kami. "That is what I mean. I am glad I made no mistake in my judgment; for the ultimate secrets of swordsmanship lie in being released from the fear of death. I have trained ever so many hundreds of my pupils along this line, but so far none of them really deserve the final certificate for swordsmanship because they cannot master this one lesson. You, however, need no technical training--you are already a master."
Adapted from Daisetz T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture, Princeton University Press, 70-71.
One day, one of the Shogun's personal guards came to Tajima no kami and asked him if he would teach him the art of the sword.
The master looked at the guard and then said slowly, "As I observe, you seem to already be a master of the art yourself; pray, tell me to what school you belong before we enter into the relationship of teacher and pupil."
The guardsman said, "I am ashamed to confess that I have never learned the art."
"Are you going to fool me?" the master said, "I am teacher to the honorable Shogun himself, and I know my judging eye never fails."
"I am sorry to defy your honor," he said, "but I really know nothing."
The master thought for a while and finally said, "If you say so, that must be so; but still I am sure of your being master of something, though I know not just what."
The guardsman then said, "If you insist, I will tell you this. There is one thing of which I can say I am a complete master. When I was still a boy, the thought came upon me that as a samurai I ought in no circumstances to be afraid of death, and I grappled with the problem of death for many years. Finally however, the problem has entirely ceased to worry me. May this be what you hint at?"
"Exactly!" exclaimed Tajima no kami. "That is what I mean. I am glad I made no mistake in my judgment; for the ultimate secrets of swordsmanship lie in being released from the fear of death. I have trained ever so many hundreds of my pupils along this line, but so far none of them really deserve the final certificate for swordsmanship because they cannot master this one lesson. You, however, need no technical training--you are already a master."
Adapted from Daisetz T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture, Princeton University Press, 70-71.Sunday, December 6, 2015
The Drama at Gate 67
(Slightly Adapted From Thomas S. Monson, "The Spirit of the Season," Christmas Devotional 2009.)
Many years ago, in the congested Atlanta, Georgia Airport in December of 1970, thousands of weary travelers were stranded because an ice storm had seriously delayed air travel, and these people were trying to get wherever they most wanted to be for Christmas--most likely home.
As the midnight hour tolled, unhappy passengers clustered around ticket counters, conferring anxiously with agents whose cheerfulness had long since evaporated. They, too, wanted to be home. A few people managed to doze in uncomfortable seats. Others gathered at the newsstands to thumb silently through paperback books.
If there was a common bond among this diverse throng, it was loneliness--pervasive, inescapable, suffocating loneliness. But airport decorum required that each traveler maintain his or her invisible barrier against all the others. Better to be lonely than to be involved, which inevitably meant listening to the complaints of gloomy and disheartened fellow travelers.
The fact of the matter was that there were more passengers than there were available seats on any of the planes. And, when an occasional plane managed to break out, more travelers stayed behind than made it aboard. The words "Standby," "Reservation confirmed," and "First-class passenger" settled priorities and bespoke money, power, influence, foresight--or the lack thereof.
Gate 67 was a microcosm of the whole cavernous airport. Scarcely more than a glassed-in cubicle, it was jammed with travelers hoping to fly to New Orleans, Dallas, and points west. Except for the fortunate few traveling in pairs, there was little conversation. A salesman stared absently into space, as if resigned. A young mother cradled an infant in her arms, gently rocking in a vain effort to soothe the soft whimpering.
Then there was a man in a finely tailored grey flannel suit who somehow seemed impervious to the collective suffering. There was a certain indifference about his manner. He was absorbed in paperwork--figuring the year-end corporate profits, perhaps. A nerve-frayed traveler sitting nearby, observing this busy man, might have identified him as an Ebenezer Scrooge.
Suddenly, the relative silence was broken by a commotion as a young man in military uniform, no more than 19 years old, conversed animatedly with the desk agent. The boy held a low-priority ticket. He pleaded with the agent to help him get to New Orleans so that he could take the bus to the obscure Louisiana village he called home.
The agent wearily told him the prospects were poor for the next 24 hours, maybe longer. The boy grew frantic. Immediately after Christmas his unit was to be sent to Vietnam--where at that time war was raging--and if he didn't make this flight, he might never again spend Christmas at home. Even the businessman in the grey flannel suit looked up from his cryptic computations to show a guarded interest. The agent clearly was moved, even a bit embarrassed. But he could only offer sympathy--not hope. The boy stood at the departure desk, casting anxious looks around the crowded room as if seeking just one friendly face.
Finally, the agent announced that the flight was ready for boarding. The travelers, who had been waiting long hours, heaved themselves up, gathered their belongings, and shuffled down the small corridor to the waiting aircraft: twenty, thirty, a hundred--until there were no more seats. The agent turned to the frantic young soldier and shrugged.
Inexplicably, the businessman had lingered behind. Now he stepped forward. "I have a confirmed ticket," he quietly told the agent. "I'd like to give my seat to this young man." The agent stared incredulously; then he motioned to the soldier. Unable to speak, tears streaming down his face, the boy in olive drab shook hands with the man in the gray flannel suit, who simply murmured, "Good luck. Have a fine Christmas. Good luck."
As the plane door closed and the engines began their rising whine, the businessman turned away, clutching his briefcase, and trudged toward the all-night restaurant.
No more than a few among the thousands stranded there at the Atlanta airport witnessed the drama at Gate 67. But for those who did, the sullenness, the frustration, the hostility--all dissolved into a glow. That act of love and kindness between strangers had brought the spirit of Christmas into their hearts.
The lights of the departing plane blinked, starlike, as the craft moved off into the darkness. The infant slept silently now in the lap of the young mother. Perhaps another flight would be leaving before many more hours. But those who witnessed the interchange were less impatient. The glow lingered, gently, pervasively, in that small glass and plastic stable at Gate 67.
President Monson then writes,
Many years ago, in the congested Atlanta, Georgia Airport in December of 1970, thousands of weary travelers were stranded because an ice storm had seriously delayed air travel, and these people were trying to get wherever they most wanted to be for Christmas--most likely home.
As the midnight hour tolled, unhappy passengers clustered around ticket counters, conferring anxiously with agents whose cheerfulness had long since evaporated. They, too, wanted to be home. A few people managed to doze in uncomfortable seats. Others gathered at the newsstands to thumb silently through paperback books.
If there was a common bond among this diverse throng, it was loneliness--pervasive, inescapable, suffocating loneliness. But airport decorum required that each traveler maintain his or her invisible barrier against all the others. Better to be lonely than to be involved, which inevitably meant listening to the complaints of gloomy and disheartened fellow travelers.
The fact of the matter was that there were more passengers than there were available seats on any of the planes. And, when an occasional plane managed to break out, more travelers stayed behind than made it aboard. The words "Standby," "Reservation confirmed," and "First-class passenger" settled priorities and bespoke money, power, influence, foresight--or the lack thereof.
Gate 67 was a microcosm of the whole cavernous airport. Scarcely more than a glassed-in cubicle, it was jammed with travelers hoping to fly to New Orleans, Dallas, and points west. Except for the fortunate few traveling in pairs, there was little conversation. A salesman stared absently into space, as if resigned. A young mother cradled an infant in her arms, gently rocking in a vain effort to soothe the soft whimpering.
Then there was a man in a finely tailored grey flannel suit who somehow seemed impervious to the collective suffering. There was a certain indifference about his manner. He was absorbed in paperwork--figuring the year-end corporate profits, perhaps. A nerve-frayed traveler sitting nearby, observing this busy man, might have identified him as an Ebenezer Scrooge.
Suddenly, the relative silence was broken by a commotion as a young man in military uniform, no more than 19 years old, conversed animatedly with the desk agent. The boy held a low-priority ticket. He pleaded with the agent to help him get to New Orleans so that he could take the bus to the obscure Louisiana village he called home.
The agent wearily told him the prospects were poor for the next 24 hours, maybe longer. The boy grew frantic. Immediately after Christmas his unit was to be sent to Vietnam--where at that time war was raging--and if he didn't make this flight, he might never again spend Christmas at home. Even the businessman in the grey flannel suit looked up from his cryptic computations to show a guarded interest. The agent clearly was moved, even a bit embarrassed. But he could only offer sympathy--not hope. The boy stood at the departure desk, casting anxious looks around the crowded room as if seeking just one friendly face.
Finally, the agent announced that the flight was ready for boarding. The travelers, who had been waiting long hours, heaved themselves up, gathered their belongings, and shuffled down the small corridor to the waiting aircraft: twenty, thirty, a hundred--until there were no more seats. The agent turned to the frantic young soldier and shrugged.
Inexplicably, the businessman had lingered behind. Now he stepped forward. "I have a confirmed ticket," he quietly told the agent. "I'd like to give my seat to this young man." The agent stared incredulously; then he motioned to the soldier. Unable to speak, tears streaming down his face, the boy in olive drab shook hands with the man in the gray flannel suit, who simply murmured, "Good luck. Have a fine Christmas. Good luck."
As the plane door closed and the engines began their rising whine, the businessman turned away, clutching his briefcase, and trudged toward the all-night restaurant.
No more than a few among the thousands stranded there at the Atlanta airport witnessed the drama at Gate 67. But for those who did, the sullenness, the frustration, the hostility--all dissolved into a glow. That act of love and kindness between strangers had brought the spirit of Christmas into their hearts.
The lights of the departing plane blinked, starlike, as the craft moved off into the darkness. The infant slept silently now in the lap of the young mother. Perhaps another flight would be leaving before many more hours. But those who witnessed the interchange were less impatient. The glow lingered, gently, pervasively, in that small glass and plastic stable at Gate 67.
President Monson then writes,
My brothers and sisters, finding the real joy of the season comes not in the hurrying and the scurrying to get more done or in the purchasing of obligatory gifts. Real joy comes as we show the love and compassion inspired by the Savior of the World, who said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these . . . ye have done it unto me" (Matthew 25:40).
Friday, December 4, 2015
A Brief Note on The Rent Collector
I recently finished this book for the third time. It's about a woman named Sang Ly who lives with her husband and constantly-ill son in a garbage dumb in Cambodia. Even though life is challenging for them (to say the least), Sang Ly begins to learn to read so that she can help her family. And the more she reads, the more she discovers the value of literature, the inner goodness of most people (even those who may at first seem to be our enemies), and, above all, hope.
I highly recommend it.
I highly recommend it.
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| I found this image on http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/69/9b/58/699b5840d8b644ee031337e9be42f5e9.jpg |
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
A Short Story of Kindness, Told by a Dentist in December
Here is a brief story that was written a handful of years ago that illustrates a simple act of kindness around Christmastime. I like it because it motivates me to do something nice for someone else:
"I am a dentist by profession. [Last December], my receptionist informed me that an acquaintance of hers was coming into my office. She had problems with two of her teeth. She knew this woman and told me of her circumstances. The woman carried many burdens. The family business, which she ran, was doing poorly, and the family was three months behind in paying rent. They had five children, many grown into adulthood, but all had moved back home because of difficult personal circumstances. By sheer force of will, she had kept her family together for some time. Now two teeth were broken.
"The woman arrived for her appointment and explained about her dental problem. She asked if I would allow her to pay her bill over time. She explained to me that her family had experienced several financial reversals and were just recently starting to pay some overdue bills.
"I assured her that her credit was good with me. She asked if I could repair just one of the two broken teeth at that time. I assured her that I could, and we began.
"Since I had the time, I repaired both teeth, for which she was grateful. When the work was completed, . . . I told her that if she would not be offended, I should like to make a Christmas present of the dental work, for which there would be no bill. She was astonished. I could sense the depth of the stress and strain she had carried, as uncontrollable tears of gratitude gushed forth due to a small, simple act of kindness. It must have been years since someone showed her some little favor. Not able to speak, she made her way out.
"Both my assistant and receptionist were so moved by her reaction that they also [shed] tears and could hardly speak. I, on the other hand, was doubly glad. One part, in seeing such a simple act have such a happy effect on another. And the second part, for once in my life having a patient in my office crying for joy and not for pain!
"To you, my very best wishes.
"Sincerely,
"A brother in the gospel."
(From Thomas S. Monson, "What is Christmas?" Liahona, Dec. 1998, 4-5.)
"I am a dentist by profession. [Last December], my receptionist informed me that an acquaintance of hers was coming into my office. She had problems with two of her teeth. She knew this woman and told me of her circumstances. The woman carried many burdens. The family business, which she ran, was doing poorly, and the family was three months behind in paying rent. They had five children, many grown into adulthood, but all had moved back home because of difficult personal circumstances. By sheer force of will, she had kept her family together for some time. Now two teeth were broken.
"The woman arrived for her appointment and explained about her dental problem. She asked if I would allow her to pay her bill over time. She explained to me that her family had experienced several financial reversals and were just recently starting to pay some overdue bills.
"I assured her that her credit was good with me. She asked if I could repair just one of the two broken teeth at that time. I assured her that I could, and we began.
"Since I had the time, I repaired both teeth, for which she was grateful. When the work was completed, . . . I told her that if she would not be offended, I should like to make a Christmas present of the dental work, for which there would be no bill. She was astonished. I could sense the depth of the stress and strain she had carried, as uncontrollable tears of gratitude gushed forth due to a small, simple act of kindness. It must have been years since someone showed her some little favor. Not able to speak, she made her way out.
"Both my assistant and receptionist were so moved by her reaction that they also [shed] tears and could hardly speak. I, on the other hand, was doubly glad. One part, in seeing such a simple act have such a happy effect on another. And the second part, for once in my life having a patient in my office crying for joy and not for pain!
"To you, my very best wishes.
"Sincerely,
"A brother in the gospel."
(From Thomas S. Monson, "What is Christmas?" Liahona, Dec. 1998, 4-5.)
Thursday, November 19, 2015
A Story from the Book of Mormon about a Group of Refugees
I woke up this morning with this story on my mind, so I wrote about it. Now I'm sharing it because I hope it might be beneficial to someone.
Before we get to the story, we'll need a bit of context. And because I'm summarizing many chapters of a fairly complex narrative, I've simplified much of it.
In this story, there are 2 general groups of people: The Lamanites and the Nephites.
Over a period of many generations, the Lamanites taught their children to hate the Nephites, so the Lamanites felt justified murdering and plundering the Nephites whenever they had the chance. And while the Nephites would often defend themselves, at this time, they did not go on the offensive against the Lamanites. Many Nephites also regarded the Lamanites as enemies, and some didn't think there were any good Lamanites (see Alma 26:23-26). But, a Nephite named Ammon had compassion on those who he believed should have been (and were!) his brothers and sisters, so he went with a few of his friends to teach the Lamanites about God and Jesus Christ.
One somewhat large group of Lamanites listened to the messages of Ammon and his friends. This group had a change of heart and felt deep sorrow for the many murders they had committed. So they dug a huge pit, buried their swords and weapons of war, and made a covenant with God that they would never again shed blood. Then, to distinguish themselves, both from others and from their own past, this group took upon them the name of Anti-Nephi-Lehies.
The Anti-Nephi-Lehies began to be persecuted by the Lamanites and by another group, called the Amalekites, who are described as apostate Nephites. The Amalekites, because of their hatred, incited the rest of the Lamanites to become angry with, to attack, and to destroy the Anti-Nephi-Lehies.
In the following excerpt from from Alma 27, The Anti-Nephi-Lehies seem to me to be a group of refugees. They are about to be destroyed by the Lamanites, but they're hesitant to ask the Nephites for protection because know that they had once done many wrongs to the Nephites:
"Now when Ammon and his brethren saw this work of destruction among those whom they so dearly beloved, and among those who had so dearly beloved them . . . they were moved with compassion, and they said unto the king [of the Anti-Nephi-Lehies]:
"And now behold, this will we do unto our brethren, that they may inherit the land Jershon; and we will guard them from their enemies with our armies, on condition that they will give us a portion of their substance to assist us that we may maintain our armies.
Before we get to the story, we'll need a bit of context. And because I'm summarizing many chapters of a fairly complex narrative, I've simplified much of it.
In this story, there are 2 general groups of people: The Lamanites and the Nephites.
Over a period of many generations, the Lamanites taught their children to hate the Nephites, so the Lamanites felt justified murdering and plundering the Nephites whenever they had the chance. And while the Nephites would often defend themselves, at this time, they did not go on the offensive against the Lamanites. Many Nephites also regarded the Lamanites as enemies, and some didn't think there were any good Lamanites (see Alma 26:23-26). But, a Nephite named Ammon had compassion on those who he believed should have been (and were!) his brothers and sisters, so he went with a few of his friends to teach the Lamanites about God and Jesus Christ.
One somewhat large group of Lamanites listened to the messages of Ammon and his friends. This group had a change of heart and felt deep sorrow for the many murders they had committed. So they dug a huge pit, buried their swords and weapons of war, and made a covenant with God that they would never again shed blood. Then, to distinguish themselves, both from others and from their own past, this group took upon them the name of Anti-Nephi-Lehies.
The Anti-Nephi-Lehies began to be persecuted by the Lamanites and by another group, called the Amalekites, who are described as apostate Nephites. The Amalekites, because of their hatred, incited the rest of the Lamanites to become angry with, to attack, and to destroy the Anti-Nephi-Lehies.
In the following excerpt from from Alma 27, The Anti-Nephi-Lehies seem to me to be a group of refugees. They are about to be destroyed by the Lamanites, but they're hesitant to ask the Nephites for protection because know that they had once done many wrongs to the Nephites:
"Now when Ammon and his brethren saw this work of destruction among those whom they so dearly beloved, and among those who had so dearly beloved them . . . they were moved with compassion, and they said unto the king [of the Anti-Nephi-Lehies]:
"Let us gather together this people of the Lord, and let us go down to the land of Zarahemla to our brethren the Nephites, and flee out of the hands of our enemies, that we be not destroyed.
"But the king said unto them: Behold, the Nephites will destroy us, because of the many murders and sins we have committed against them.
"And Ammon said: I will go and inquire of the Lord, and if he say unto us, go down unto our brethren, will ye go?
"And the king said unto him: Yea, if the Lord saith unto us go, we will go down unto our brethren, and we will be their slaves until we repair unto them the many murders and sins which we have committed against them.
"But Ammon said unto him: It is against the law of our brethren, which was established by my father, that there should be any slaves among them; therefore let us go down and rely upon the mercies of our brethren.
"But the king said unto him: Inquire of the Lord, and if he saith unto us go, we will go; otherwise we will perish in the land.
"And it came to pass that Ammon went and inquired of the Lord, and the Lord said unto him:
"Get this people out of this land, that they perish not; for Satan has great hold on the hearts of the Amalekites, who do stir up the Lamanites to anger against their brethren to slay them; therefore get thee out of this land; and blessed are this people in this generation, for I will preserve them.
"And now it came to pass that Ammon went and told the king all the words which the Lord had said unto him.
"And they gathered together all their people, yea, all the people of the Lord, and did gather together all their flocks and herds, and departed out of the land, and came into the wilderness which divided the land of Nephi from the land of Zarahemla, and came over near the borders of the land.
"And it came to pass that Ammon said unto them: Behold, I and my brethren will go forth into the land of Zarahemla, and ye shall remain here until we return; and we will try the hearts of our brethren, whether they will that ye shall come into their land.
. . .
"And now it came to pass that Alma conducted his brethren back to the land of Zarahemla; even to his own house. And they went and told the chief judge all the things that had happened unto them in the land of Nephi, among their brethren, the Lamanites.
"And it came to pass that the chief judge sent a proclamation throughout all the land, desiring the voice of the people concerning the admitting their brethren, who were the people of Anti-Nephi-Lehi.
"And it came to pass that the voice of the people came, saying: Behold, we will give up the land of Jershon, which is on the east by the sea, which joins the land Bountiful, which is on the south of the land Bountiful; and this land Jershon is the land which we will give unto our brethren for an inheritance.
"And behold, we will set our armies between the land Jershon and the land Nephi, that we may protect our brethren in the land Jershon; and this we do for our brethren, on account of their fear to take up arms against their brethren lest they should commit sin; and this their great fear came because of their sore repentance which they had, on account of their many murders and their awful wickedness.
"Now, it came to pass that when Ammon had heard this, he returned to the people of Anti-Nephi-Lehi, and also Alma with him, into the wilderness, where they had pitched their tents, and made known unto them all these things. . . .
"And it came to pass that it did cause great joy among them. And they went down into the land of Jershon, and took possession of the land of Jershon; and they were called by the Nephites the people of Ammon; therefore they were distinguished by that name ever after.
"And they were among the people of Nephi, and also numbered among the people who were of the church of God. And they were also distinguished for their zeal towards God, and also towards men; for they were perfectly honest and upright in all things; and they were firm in the faith of Christ, even unto the end.
"And they did look upon shedding the blood of their brethren with the greatest abhorrence; and they never could be prevailed upon to take up arms against their brethren; and they never did look upon death with any degree of terror, for their hope and views of Christ and the resurrection; therefore, death was swallowed up to them by the victory of Christ over it.
. . .
"And thus they were a zealous and beloved people, a highly favored people of the Lord.
(Note that the words "zeal" and "zealousness" in these passages refer to great energy and enthusiasm. They are in no way associated with fanaticism or extremism.)
(Note that the words "zeal" and "zealousness" in these passages refer to great energy and enthusiasm. They are in no way associated with fanaticism or extremism.)
I find this story inspiring because while neither party was perfect, it seems to me that the Nephites treated the Anti-Nephi-Lehies as they would have liked to have been treated if they had been in a similar situation--like fellow human beings. The Nephites, though they may not have liked everything about the other party, when they learned of the plight of the Anti-Nephi-Lehies, were still persuaded to help the Anti-Nephi-Lehies. The Anti-Nephi-Lehies, on the other hand, were hesitant to ask the Nephites for assistance--they knew they had been and would continue to be a burden to people who had done nothing to them. But they still asked. And they received the help they needed.
I wonder if we could even say that the Anti-Nephi-Lehies gave the Nephites an opportunity to help them--an opportunity that many of the Nephites perhaps needed. What I mean is I wonder if the Nephites needed to learn something about both the Anti-Nephi-Lehies and also also about themselves. They, at least the ones who saw the Lamanites as evil, needed to learn that the Lamanites weren't evil--they were just mistaken. Not only that, but the Nephites who had seen the Lamanites as evil were also mistaken. Both parties were to some degree mistaken because of the stories they had been telling themselves about the other party over many generations. Though there were extremes on both sides, there were also normal people--human beings--on both sides, people who were just trying to do the best they could with what they had. People who, when they received greater light and knowledge than they then had, chose willingly, even enthusiastically, to embrace it.
I wonder if we could even say that the Anti-Nephi-Lehies gave the Nephites an opportunity to help them--an opportunity that many of the Nephites perhaps needed. What I mean is I wonder if the Nephites needed to learn something about both the Anti-Nephi-Lehies and also also about themselves. They, at least the ones who saw the Lamanites as evil, needed to learn that the Lamanites weren't evil--they were just mistaken. Not only that, but the Nephites who had seen the Lamanites as evil were also mistaken. Both parties were to some degree mistaken because of the stories they had been telling themselves about the other party over many generations. Though there were extremes on both sides, there were also normal people--human beings--on both sides, people who were just trying to do the best they could with what they had. People who, when they received greater light and knowledge than they then had, chose willingly, even enthusiastically, to embrace it.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Turning on the Car and Knowing that the Car is Running
I stand at the door with my keys in my hand. Then, when I find the right key, I put it in the door and turn my wrist to unlock it. I pull the key out, open the door, sit down in the car seat, then shut the door. Then comes the moment of truth. I take the key and put it in the ignition, but before I turn my wrist I hesitate: will this work? It's worked every time before, but what about this time? How do I know it will work? Will this small action of mine actually start a chain of events that will turn on the car?
I hope that it will, so I act in accordance with my beliefs: I turn my wrist and, sure enough, the car starts.
Now, as I sit here in the car seat and listen to the engine, I wonder what goes on under the hood. I'm not a car expert, and I can't even see under the hood--I mean, I'm sitting in the driver's seat, and the hood is closed. So of course I can't see the engine or any thing else that's going on. But I can hear it, and I can feel it. So, even though I can't see what's going on, I still say that I know that the whole system is working. I know that my car is running, but that doesn't mean that I have a perfect knowledge of the entire car--actually, I don't need a complete and full knowledge of the entire system to know that it works.
And besides--can I even have a full and perfect knowledge? Isn't there even something that the experts themselves don't know and about which they debate? Who are these experts? Well, they're human, just like me. If I wanted to, I could be like one of them, but it would take a lot of work on my part, a lot of learning, and a lot of training. But I could do it, if I wanted to.
But how do I know that? Well, it seems obvious--though I must admit that even on this point I don't have a perfect knowledge. Yet my belief in that potential becomes a partial knowledge as I continue to act on it. And as I act, my knowledge grows greater and greater until it becomes that of an expert. Though even as an "expert," I will still have much to learn.
There's nothing confusing about any of this.
I hope that it will, so I act in accordance with my beliefs: I turn my wrist and, sure enough, the car starts.
Now, as I sit here in the car seat and listen to the engine, I wonder what goes on under the hood. I'm not a car expert, and I can't even see under the hood--I mean, I'm sitting in the driver's seat, and the hood is closed. So of course I can't see the engine or any thing else that's going on. But I can hear it, and I can feel it. So, even though I can't see what's going on, I still say that I know that the whole system is working. I know that my car is running, but that doesn't mean that I have a perfect knowledge of the entire car--actually, I don't need a complete and full knowledge of the entire system to know that it works.
And besides--can I even have a full and perfect knowledge? Isn't there even something that the experts themselves don't know and about which they debate? Who are these experts? Well, they're human, just like me. If I wanted to, I could be like one of them, but it would take a lot of work on my part, a lot of learning, and a lot of training. But I could do it, if I wanted to.
But how do I know that? Well, it seems obvious--though I must admit that even on this point I don't have a perfect knowledge. Yet my belief in that potential becomes a partial knowledge as I continue to act on it. And as I act, my knowledge grows greater and greater until it becomes that of an expert. Though even as an "expert," I will still have much to learn.
There's nothing confusing about any of this.
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
A Story about a Man who Went on a Cruise
This story comes from President Dieter F. Uchtdorf's talk, "Your Potential, Your Privilege." President Uchtdorf is second councilor in the governing body of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I appreciate this talk because it persuades me to not want to take for granted the gifts I've been given. Instead, however, I want to maximize my full potential, get to work, and do my very best. I like it. :)
Here is the story:
There once was a man whose lifelong dream was to board a cruise ship and sail the Mediterranean Sea. He dreamed of walking the streets of Rome, Athens, and Istanbul. He saved every penny until he had enough for his passage. Since money was tight, he brought an extra suitcase filled with cans of beans, boxes of crackers, and bags of powdered lemonade, and that is what he lived on every day.
He would have loved to take part in the many activities offered on the ship—working out in the gym, playing miniature golf, and swimming in the pool. He envied those who went to movies, shows, and cultural presentations. And, oh, how he yearned for only a taste of the amazing food he saw on the ship—every meal appeared to be a feast! But the man wanted to spend so very little money that he didn’t participate in any of these. He was able to see the cities he had longed to visit, but for the most part of the journey, he stayed in his cabin and ate only his humble food.
On the last day of the cruise, a crew member asked him which of the farewell parties he would be attending. It was then that the man learned that not only the farewell party but almost everything on board the cruise ship—the food, the entertainment, all the activities—had been included in the price of his ticket. Too late the man realized that he had been living far beneath his privileges. (Uchtdorf, "Your Potential, Your Privilege," April 2011.Isn't that interesting? Now let's get busy and do our very best with all we've been given!
Sunday, August 30, 2015
The Unwise Bee, A Brief Story by James E. Talmage
Sometimes I find myself under obligations of work requiring quiet and seclusion such as neither my comfortable office nor the cozy study at home insures. My favorite retreat is an upper room in the tower of a large building, well removed from the noise and confusion of the city streets. The room is somewhat difficult to access and relatively secure against human intrusion. Therein I have spent many peaceful hours with books and pen.
I am not always without visitors, however, especially in the summertime; for when I sit with the windows open, flying insects occasionally find entrance and share the place with me. These self-invited guests are not unwelcome, and many times I have laid down the pen and watched with interest the activities of these winged visitants with an afterthought that the time so spent had not been wasted. For is it not true that even a butterfly, a beetle, or a bee may be a bearer of lessons to the receptive student?
Once, a wild bee from the neighboring hills flew into the room. At intervals during an hour or more I listened to the pleasing hum of its flight. The little creature realized that it was a prisoner, yet all its efforts to find the exit through the partly opened window failed.
When I was ready to close up the room and leave, however, I threw the window wide open and tried to guide and then to drive the bee to liberty and safety, knowing full well that if it was left in the room it would die just as other insects there entrapped had perished in the dry atmosphere of the enclosure. But the more I tried to drive the bee out, the more determinedly did it oppose and resist my efforts. Its erstwhile peaceful hum developed into an angry roar; its darting flight became hostile and threatening.
Then it caught me off my guard and stung my hand--the very hand that would have guided it to freedom--and finally alighted on a pendant attached to the ceiling, beyond my reach of either help or injury. The sharp pain of its unkind sting aroused in me rather pity than anger, for I knew the inevitable penalty of its mistaken opposition and defiance, and I had to leave the creature to its fate.
Three days later, I returned to the room. When I entered, I saw the dried, lifeless body of the bee on the writing table. It had paid for its stubbornness with its life.
To the bee's shortsightedness and misunderstanding I was a foe, a persistent persecutor, a mortal enemy bent on its destruction; while in truth I was its friend, offering it ransom of the life it had put in forfeit through its own error, striving to redeem it, in spite of itself, from the prison house of death and restore it to the outer air of liberty.
Are we so much wiser than the bee that no analogy lies between its unwise course and our own lives?
[Slightly adapted from James E. Talmage, "The Unwise Bee."]
I am not always without visitors, however, especially in the summertime; for when I sit with the windows open, flying insects occasionally find entrance and share the place with me. These self-invited guests are not unwelcome, and many times I have laid down the pen and watched with interest the activities of these winged visitants with an afterthought that the time so spent had not been wasted. For is it not true that even a butterfly, a beetle, or a bee may be a bearer of lessons to the receptive student?
Once, a wild bee from the neighboring hills flew into the room. At intervals during an hour or more I listened to the pleasing hum of its flight. The little creature realized that it was a prisoner, yet all its efforts to find the exit through the partly opened window failed.
When I was ready to close up the room and leave, however, I threw the window wide open and tried to guide and then to drive the bee to liberty and safety, knowing full well that if it was left in the room it would die just as other insects there entrapped had perished in the dry atmosphere of the enclosure. But the more I tried to drive the bee out, the more determinedly did it oppose and resist my efforts. Its erstwhile peaceful hum developed into an angry roar; its darting flight became hostile and threatening.
Then it caught me off my guard and stung my hand--the very hand that would have guided it to freedom--and finally alighted on a pendant attached to the ceiling, beyond my reach of either help or injury. The sharp pain of its unkind sting aroused in me rather pity than anger, for I knew the inevitable penalty of its mistaken opposition and defiance, and I had to leave the creature to its fate.
Three days later, I returned to the room. When I entered, I saw the dried, lifeless body of the bee on the writing table. It had paid for its stubbornness with its life.
To the bee's shortsightedness and misunderstanding I was a foe, a persistent persecutor, a mortal enemy bent on its destruction; while in truth I was its friend, offering it ransom of the life it had put in forfeit through its own error, striving to redeem it, in spite of itself, from the prison house of death and restore it to the outer air of liberty.
Are we so much wiser than the bee that no analogy lies between its unwise course and our own lives?
[Slightly adapted from James E. Talmage, "The Unwise Bee."]
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| I found this image on The Culinary Exchange: http://www.theculinaryexchange.com/blog/how-the-bee-will-determine-the-future-of-the-food-ecosystem/#.VeOSS_lViko |
Saturday, June 20, 2015
A Young Man Desires to Learn the Art of Swordsmanship
Once upon a time there was a young man who desired to learn the art of the sword, so he journeyed to the mountain hut of a retired master and asked to be his disciple. The master agreed, and then put the young man to work splitting wood, cooking rice, drawing water from a nearby spring, and doing other chores to care for the house in general. There seemed to be no formal instruction in the art of swordsmanship, so after a while, the young man became frustrated. He did not come to this mountain hut be a slave to the master; he came to learn the art of swordsmanship. So he approached the master about the matter.
After that discussion, the young man still was asked to complete seemingly mundane tasks with no apparent instruction in the art of the sword, except that now he could not do any of his chores without fear--for when he would be cooking rice in the morning, all of a sudden the master would hit him in the back with a stick. Or when he would be sweeping the garden in the afternoon, he would suddenly be struck from an unknown direction by the master. After a period of time time, the young man was sometimes able to dodge the blow, but he never knew where or when to expect it.
But when the young man saw the master cooking his own vegetables one day, he decided it was pay back time. The young man took a big stick, crept up behind the master who was stooping over the pot to stir the vegetables, and let the stick fall over the master's head--but the master, just in time, had raised the lid of the pan just in time to block the young man's blow.
This act opened the young man's mind to the secrets of the art, and he was filled with gratitude for the master's kindness.
(Adapted from Daisetz T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture)
After that discussion, the young man still was asked to complete seemingly mundane tasks with no apparent instruction in the art of the sword, except that now he could not do any of his chores without fear--for when he would be cooking rice in the morning, all of a sudden the master would hit him in the back with a stick. Or when he would be sweeping the garden in the afternoon, he would suddenly be struck from an unknown direction by the master. After a period of time time, the young man was sometimes able to dodge the blow, but he never knew where or when to expect it.
But when the young man saw the master cooking his own vegetables one day, he decided it was pay back time. The young man took a big stick, crept up behind the master who was stooping over the pot to stir the vegetables, and let the stick fall over the master's head--but the master, just in time, had raised the lid of the pan just in time to block the young man's blow.
This act opened the young man's mind to the secrets of the art, and he was filled with gratitude for the master's kindness.
(Adapted from Daisetz T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture)
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Some Larger Way, Path, or Errand
"The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
"'That sounds like a bit of old Bilbo's rhyming,' said Pippin.
. . .
"'I don't know,' said Frodo. 'It came to me then, as if I was making it up; but I may have heard it long ago. Certainly it reminds me very much of Bilbo in the last years, before he went away. He used often to say there was only one Road; that it was like a great river: its springs were at every doorstep, and every path was its tributary. "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door," he used to say. "You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to. Do you realize that this is the very path that goes through Mirkwood, and that if you let it, it might take you to the Lonely Mountain or even further and to worse places?" He used to say that on the path outside the front door at Bag End, especially after he had been out for a long walk.'"
(The Lord of the Rings, one volume edition, p. 73-74)
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
"'That sounds like a bit of old Bilbo's rhyming,' said Pippin.
. . .
"'I don't know,' said Frodo. 'It came to me then, as if I was making it up; but I may have heard it long ago. Certainly it reminds me very much of Bilbo in the last years, before he went away. He used often to say there was only one Road; that it was like a great river: its springs were at every doorstep, and every path was its tributary. "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door," he used to say. "You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to. Do you realize that this is the very path that goes through Mirkwood, and that if you let it, it might take you to the Lonely Mountain or even further and to worse places?" He used to say that on the path outside the front door at Bag End, especially after he had been out for a long walk.'"
(The Lord of the Rings, one volume edition, p. 73-74)
Friday, April 3, 2015
A Story about Two Small Boys, and a Small Accident," by David A. Bednar
"One evening," David A. Bednar writes, "Susan and I stood near a window in our home and watched two of our little boys playing outside. During the course of their adventures, the younger of the two boys was injured slightly in a small accident. We quickly recognized that he was not seriously hurt, and we decided not to provide immediate assistance. We wanted to observe and see if any of our family discussions about brotherly kindness had sunk in. What happened next was both interesting and instructive.
"The older brother consoled and carefully helped the younger brother back into the house. Susan and I had positioned ourselves near the kitchen so we could see what next took place, and we were prepared to intervene immediately if additional bodily harm seemed likely or a serious accident was imminent.
"The older brother consoled and carefully helped the younger brother back into the house. Susan and I had positioned ourselves near the kitchen so we could see what next took place, and we were prepared to intervene immediately if additional bodily harm seemed likely or a serious accident was imminent.
"The older brother dragged a chair to the kitchen sink. He climbed up on the chair, assisted his brother onto the chair, turned on the water, and proceeded to pour a large quantity of dishwashing soap onto the scratched arm of his little brother. He did his best to gently wash away the dirt. The reaction of the little brother to this procedure can only be described accurately using language from the holy scriptures: “And they shall have cause to howl, and weep, and wail, and gnash their teeth” (Mosiah 16:2). And did that little boy howl!
"After the scrubbing was finished, the arm was carefully dried with a towel. Eventually the screaming stopped. The older brother next climbed up onto the kitchen counter, opened a cabinet, and found a new tube of medicated ointment. Though the scratches on his little brother were not large or extensive, the older brother applied almost all of the ointment in the tube to the entire injured arm. The screaming did not resume, as the little brother clearly liked the soothing effect of the ointment much more than he appreciated the cleansing effect of the dishwashing soap.
"After the scrubbing was finished, the arm was carefully dried with a towel. Eventually the screaming stopped. The older brother next climbed up onto the kitchen counter, opened a cabinet, and found a new tube of medicated ointment. Though the scratches on his little brother were not large or extensive, the older brother applied almost all of the ointment in the tube to the entire injured arm. The screaming did not resume, as the little brother clearly liked the soothing effect of the ointment much more than he appreciated the cleansing effect of the dishwashing soap.
"The older brother returned again to the cabinet in which he had found the ointment and located a new box of sterile bandages. He then unwrapped and put bandages all up and down his brother’s arm—from the wrist to the elbow. With the emergency resolved, and with soap bubbles, ointment, and wrappers all over the kitchen, the two little boys hopped down from the chair with bright smiles and happy faces.
"What happened next is most important. The injured brother gathered up the remaining bandages and the almost empty tube of ointment, and he went back outside. He quickly sought out his friends and began to put ointment and bandages on their arms. Susan and I both were struck by the sincerity, enthusiasm, and rapidity of his response.
"Why did that little boy do what he did? Please note that he immediately and intuitively wanted to give to his friends the very thing that had helped him when he was hurt. That little boy did not have to be urged, challenged, prompted, or goaded to act. His desire to share was the natural consequence of a most helpful and beneficial personal experience."
From "Come and See," Ensign, November 2014, 108.
From "Come and See," Ensign, November 2014, 108.
Monday, March 23, 2015
A Short Story from a Book about Technology
The book is called User-Centered Technology: A Rhetorical Theory for Computers and Other Mundane Artifacts, but don't let the title turn you off--it's a pretty good book. But while theory books seldom have short stories in them, here is one of the ones in this book, written in first-person by the author, Robert R. Johnson:
"I don't think that I could have been much more than ten or eleven years old, but the memory is nevertheless pungently clear. I was standing on the corner of Fifth and Broadway in Gary, Indiana (the town where I was 'born and bred' as they say), waiting for my father to come out of the building where he had an office. As I waited, I watched a man dressed in a doorman's uniform step from the front door of the First National Bank with a large push broom in his hand. Once out on the sidewalk, he began sweeping and continue to do so until he had whisked a significant amount of white-gray, dusty material out to the curb. He then pushed the dusty residue down the length of the sidewalk, off the curb, into the street, and finally into a storm-sewer grate where it fell quickly out of sight. The doorman returned to the main entrance of the bank, and with the broom still in his hand, held the door for a customer who stepped out onto the temporarily clean sidewalk.
"Not long after the workman was done sweeping, my father appeared and we began walking to our car. On the way, I asked my father, 'Why was that old man sweeping the sidewalk in front of the bank?' 'He does it to keep people from tracking the dirt into the bank,' my father replied. 'It helps to keep the carpets in the bank from getting dirty so fast.' Still not completely satisfied with the answer, I continued, 'Why does the bank sidewalk get dirty so fast?' To answer this question, my father stopped, turned, and pointed his finger toward the north--directly at the main 'Works' of U.S. Steel that lay a scant five blocks away. 'You see the smoke coming from the "Works?" [sic] There's a lot of dust and dirt in that smoke, and it falls like rain on the downtown sidewalks every day and night. It's especially thick when water is dumped on the hot steel after it comes out of the blast furnaces. The man at the bank is kept pretty busy keeping that dust out of the bank lobby.'
"Just then, I saw a large white-gray cloud appear over the 'Works,' and it was followed by a muffled roar. 'There . . . there it is now. They're pouring the water on the hot steel--thousands of gallons of it. There will be plenty more dust for him to sweep soon enough,' he said as we turned back in the direction of the car. As we continued down the sidewalk, I noticed that the sky was changing color, to a sort of white-gray."
"I don't think that I could have been much more than ten or eleven years old, but the memory is nevertheless pungently clear. I was standing on the corner of Fifth and Broadway in Gary, Indiana (the town where I was 'born and bred' as they say), waiting for my father to come out of the building where he had an office. As I waited, I watched a man dressed in a doorman's uniform step from the front door of the First National Bank with a large push broom in his hand. Once out on the sidewalk, he began sweeping and continue to do so until he had whisked a significant amount of white-gray, dusty material out to the curb. He then pushed the dusty residue down the length of the sidewalk, off the curb, into the street, and finally into a storm-sewer grate where it fell quickly out of sight. The doorman returned to the main entrance of the bank, and with the broom still in his hand, held the door for a customer who stepped out onto the temporarily clean sidewalk.
"Not long after the workman was done sweeping, my father appeared and we began walking to our car. On the way, I asked my father, 'Why was that old man sweeping the sidewalk in front of the bank?' 'He does it to keep people from tracking the dirt into the bank,' my father replied. 'It helps to keep the carpets in the bank from getting dirty so fast.' Still not completely satisfied with the answer, I continued, 'Why does the bank sidewalk get dirty so fast?' To answer this question, my father stopped, turned, and pointed his finger toward the north--directly at the main 'Works' of U.S. Steel that lay a scant five blocks away. 'You see the smoke coming from the "Works?" [sic] There's a lot of dust and dirt in that smoke, and it falls like rain on the downtown sidewalks every day and night. It's especially thick when water is dumped on the hot steel after it comes out of the blast furnaces. The man at the bank is kept pretty busy keeping that dust out of the bank lobby.'
"Just then, I saw a large white-gray cloud appear over the 'Works,' and it was followed by a muffled roar. 'There . . . there it is now. They're pouring the water on the hot steel--thousands of gallons of it. There will be plenty more dust for him to sweep soon enough,' he said as we turned back in the direction of the car. As we continued down the sidewalk, I noticed that the sky was changing color, to a sort of white-gray."
Sunday, March 22, 2015
An Imaginary Conversation with Someone from an Earlier Era and a Journey Through a Cave
"Suppose you were able to travel back in time and have a conversation with people who lived a thousand or even a hundred years ago. Imagine trying to describe to them some of the modern technologies that you and I take for granted today. For example, what might these people think of us if we told them stories of jumbo jets, microwave ovens, handheld devices that contain vast digital libraries, and videos of our grandchildren that we instantly share with millions of people around the world?
"Some might believe us. Most would ridicule, oppose, or perhaps even seek to silence or harm us. Some might attempt to apply logic, reason, and facts as they know them to show that we are misguided, foolish, or even dangerous. They might condemn us for attempting to mislead others.
"But of course, these people would be completely mistaken. They might be well-meaning and sincere. They might feel absolutely positive of their opinion. But they simply would not be able to see clearly because they had not yet received the more complete light of truth."
From Dieter F. Uchtdorf, "Receiving a Testimony of Light and Truth," Ensign, November 2014, 20. See this link for a video clip of the entire address.
Whenever we teach someone to do something new, we assume a similar perspective--we assume that we see more than our students. Say we are teaching students how to write. We see something our students can do to improve, so we tell them about it. They may become frustrated and angry. It is never easy to be asked to change. But if we are going to help our students become better writers, then we must point out what they can do differently. In short, we assume that we see more than they do.
It is like this classic story that you've all heard or read at some time or another. Two people are discussing education, and one says to the other:
"Next, I said, compare the effect of education and of the lack of it on our nature to an experience like this: Imagine human beings living in an underground, cavelike dwelling, with an entrance a long way up, which is both open to the light and as wide as the cave itself. They've been there since childhood, fixed in the same place, with their necks and legs fettered, able to see only in front of them, because their bonds prevent them from turning their heads around. Light is provided by a fire burning far above and behind them. Also behind them, but on higher ground, there is a path stretching between them and the fire. Imagine that along this path a low wall has been built, like the screen in front of puppeteers above which they show their puppets."
"I'm imagining it."
"Then also imagine that there are people along the wall, carrying all kinds of artifacts that project above it--statues of people and other animals, made out of stone, wood, and every material. And, as you'd expect, some of the carriers are talking, and some are silent."
"It's a strange image you're describing, and strange prisoners."
"They're like us. Do you suppose, first of all, that these prisoners see anything of themselves and one another besides the shadows that the fire casts on the wall in front of them?"
"How could they, if they have to keep their heads motionless throughout life?"
"What about the things being carried along the wall? Isn't the same true of them?"
"Of course."
"And if they could talk to one another, don't you think they'd suppose that the names they used applied to the things they see passing before them?"
"They'd have to."
"And what if their prison also had an echo from the wall facing them? Don't you think they'd believe that the shadows passing in front of them were talking whenever one of the carriers passing along the wall was doing so?"
"I certainly do."
"Then the prisoners would in every way believe that the truth is nothing other than the shadows of those artifacts."
"They must surely believe that."
"Consider, then, what being released from their bonds and cured of their ignorance would naturally be like, if something like this came to pass. When one of them was freed and suddenly compelled to stand up, turn his head, walk, and look up toward the light, he'd be pained and dazzled and unable to see the things whose shadows he'd seen before. What do you think he'd say, if we told him that what he'd seen before was inconsequential, but that now--because he is a bit closer to the things that are and is turned towards things that are more--he sees more correctly? Or, to put it another way, if we pointed to each of the things passing by, asked him what each of them is, and compelled him to answer, don't you think he'd be at a loss and that he'd believe that the things he saw earlier were truer than the ones he was now being shown?"
"Much truer."
"And if someone compelled him to look at the light itself, wouldn't his eyes hurt, and wouldn't he turn around and flee towards the things he's able to see, believing that they're really clearer than the one's he's being shown?"
"He would."
"And if someone dragged him away from there by force, up the rough, steep path, and didn't let him go until he had dragged him into the sunlight, wouldn't he be pained and irritated at being treated that way? And when he came into the light, with the sun filling his eyes, wouldn't he be unable to see a single one of the things now said to be true?"
"He would be unable to see them, at least at first."
"I suppose, then, that he'd need time to get adjusted before he could see things in the world above. At first, he'd see shadows most easily, then images of men and other things in water, then the things themselves. Of these, he'd be able to study the things in the sky and the sky itself more easily at night, looking at the light of the stars and the moon, than during the day, looking at the sun and the light of the sun."
"Of course."
"Finally, I suppose, he'd be able to see the sun, not images of it in water or some alien place, but the sun itself, in its own place, and be able to study it."
"Necessarily so."
"And at this point he would infer and conclude that the sun provides the seasons and the years, governs everything in the visible world, and is in some way the cause of all the things that he used to see."
"It's clear that would be his next step."
"What about when he reminds himself of his first dwelling place, his fellow prisoners, and what passed for wisdom there? Don't you think that he'd count himself happy for the change and pity the others?"
"Certainly."
"And if there had been any honors, praises, or prizes among them for the one who was sharpest at identifying the shadows as they passed by and who best remembered which usually came earlier, which later, and which simultaneously, and who could thus best divine the future, do you think that our man would desire these rewards or envy those among the prisoners who were honored and held power? Instead, wouldn't he feel, with Homer, that he'd much prefer to 'work the earth as a serf to another, one without possessions,' and go through any sufferings, rather than share their opinions and live as they do?"
"I suppose he would rather suffer anything than live like that."
"Consider this too. If this man went down into the cave again and sat down in his same seat, wouldn't his eyes--coming suddenly out of the sun like that--be filled with darkness?"
"They certainly would."
"And before his eyes had recovered--and the adjustment would not be quick--while his vision was still dim, if he had to compete again with the perpetual prisoners in recognizing the shadows, wouldn't he invite ridicule? Wouldn't it be said of him that he'd returned from his upward journey with his eyesight ruined and that it isn't worthwhile even to try to travel upward? . . . "
"They certainly would."
That's from C. D. C. Reeve's revision of G. M. A. Grube's translation of Book VII of Plato's Republic, 514a-517a.
"Some might believe us. Most would ridicule, oppose, or perhaps even seek to silence or harm us. Some might attempt to apply logic, reason, and facts as they know them to show that we are misguided, foolish, or even dangerous. They might condemn us for attempting to mislead others.
"But of course, these people would be completely mistaken. They might be well-meaning and sincere. They might feel absolutely positive of their opinion. But they simply would not be able to see clearly because they had not yet received the more complete light of truth."
From Dieter F. Uchtdorf, "Receiving a Testimony of Light and Truth," Ensign, November 2014, 20. See this link for a video clip of the entire address.
Whenever we teach someone to do something new, we assume a similar perspective--we assume that we see more than our students. Say we are teaching students how to write. We see something our students can do to improve, so we tell them about it. They may become frustrated and angry. It is never easy to be asked to change. But if we are going to help our students become better writers, then we must point out what they can do differently. In short, we assume that we see more than they do.
It is like this classic story that you've all heard or read at some time or another. Two people are discussing education, and one says to the other:
"Next, I said, compare the effect of education and of the lack of it on our nature to an experience like this: Imagine human beings living in an underground, cavelike dwelling, with an entrance a long way up, which is both open to the light and as wide as the cave itself. They've been there since childhood, fixed in the same place, with their necks and legs fettered, able to see only in front of them, because their bonds prevent them from turning their heads around. Light is provided by a fire burning far above and behind them. Also behind them, but on higher ground, there is a path stretching between them and the fire. Imagine that along this path a low wall has been built, like the screen in front of puppeteers above which they show their puppets."
"I'm imagining it."
"Then also imagine that there are people along the wall, carrying all kinds of artifacts that project above it--statues of people and other animals, made out of stone, wood, and every material. And, as you'd expect, some of the carriers are talking, and some are silent."
"It's a strange image you're describing, and strange prisoners."
"They're like us. Do you suppose, first of all, that these prisoners see anything of themselves and one another besides the shadows that the fire casts on the wall in front of them?"
"How could they, if they have to keep their heads motionless throughout life?"
"What about the things being carried along the wall? Isn't the same true of them?"
"Of course."
"And if they could talk to one another, don't you think they'd suppose that the names they used applied to the things they see passing before them?"
"They'd have to."
"And what if their prison also had an echo from the wall facing them? Don't you think they'd believe that the shadows passing in front of them were talking whenever one of the carriers passing along the wall was doing so?"
"I certainly do."
"Then the prisoners would in every way believe that the truth is nothing other than the shadows of those artifacts."
"They must surely believe that."
"Consider, then, what being released from their bonds and cured of their ignorance would naturally be like, if something like this came to pass. When one of them was freed and suddenly compelled to stand up, turn his head, walk, and look up toward the light, he'd be pained and dazzled and unable to see the things whose shadows he'd seen before. What do you think he'd say, if we told him that what he'd seen before was inconsequential, but that now--because he is a bit closer to the things that are and is turned towards things that are more--he sees more correctly? Or, to put it another way, if we pointed to each of the things passing by, asked him what each of them is, and compelled him to answer, don't you think he'd be at a loss and that he'd believe that the things he saw earlier were truer than the ones he was now being shown?"
"Much truer."
"And if someone compelled him to look at the light itself, wouldn't his eyes hurt, and wouldn't he turn around and flee towards the things he's able to see, believing that they're really clearer than the one's he's being shown?"
"He would."
"And if someone dragged him away from there by force, up the rough, steep path, and didn't let him go until he had dragged him into the sunlight, wouldn't he be pained and irritated at being treated that way? And when he came into the light, with the sun filling his eyes, wouldn't he be unable to see a single one of the things now said to be true?"
"He would be unable to see them, at least at first."
"I suppose, then, that he'd need time to get adjusted before he could see things in the world above. At first, he'd see shadows most easily, then images of men and other things in water, then the things themselves. Of these, he'd be able to study the things in the sky and the sky itself more easily at night, looking at the light of the stars and the moon, than during the day, looking at the sun and the light of the sun."
"Of course."
"Finally, I suppose, he'd be able to see the sun, not images of it in water or some alien place, but the sun itself, in its own place, and be able to study it."
"Necessarily so."
"And at this point he would infer and conclude that the sun provides the seasons and the years, governs everything in the visible world, and is in some way the cause of all the things that he used to see."
"It's clear that would be his next step."
"What about when he reminds himself of his first dwelling place, his fellow prisoners, and what passed for wisdom there? Don't you think that he'd count himself happy for the change and pity the others?"
"Certainly."
"And if there had been any honors, praises, or prizes among them for the one who was sharpest at identifying the shadows as they passed by and who best remembered which usually came earlier, which later, and which simultaneously, and who could thus best divine the future, do you think that our man would desire these rewards or envy those among the prisoners who were honored and held power? Instead, wouldn't he feel, with Homer, that he'd much prefer to 'work the earth as a serf to another, one without possessions,' and go through any sufferings, rather than share their opinions and live as they do?"
"I suppose he would rather suffer anything than live like that."
"Consider this too. If this man went down into the cave again and sat down in his same seat, wouldn't his eyes--coming suddenly out of the sun like that--be filled with darkness?"
"They certainly would."
"And before his eyes had recovered--and the adjustment would not be quick--while his vision was still dim, if he had to compete again with the perpetual prisoners in recognizing the shadows, wouldn't he invite ridicule? Wouldn't it be said of him that he'd returned from his upward journey with his eyesight ruined and that it isn't worthwhile even to try to travel upward? . . . "
"They certainly would."
That's from C. D. C. Reeve's revision of G. M. A. Grube's translation of Book VII of Plato's Republic, 514a-517a.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
A Dancing Dog
"My dog," Kenneth Burke writes, "is a dancer . . . in the surprising way he conjugates, let us say, the verb 'to eat.' For the present tense he uses, quite literally, the act of eating. But for the future tense, to say 'I will eat,' he sniffs at his plate, glances ill-naturedly at the cat, and salivates. And to express the perfect tense of this astoundingly irregular virb, to say 'I have eaten,' he picks himself a cool spot under the porch, curls up, and goes to sleep" ("The Dance: The 'Problems' of the Ballet." Nation 140 (March 1935): 343-44.)
Saturday, February 1, 2014
A Short Story Illustrating Something Ironic that Will Be Discussed More in a Later Post
Normally it takes more than 15 minutes to get there. You have only 10 minutes before it starts, though, and you're just now pulling out of the driveway. You hit the gas. It's early, so hopefully no one will be on the roads.
You're making good time, and the speedometer proves it. Things are going well--until you see the red and blue flashing lights in the rear-view mirror. You cringed, and your eyes dart down at the speedometer. Then your heart sinks. You hit the breaks and exhale, then you pull over, turn your car off, and roll down your window. You lean your head on your thumb and forefinger and stare blankly at the wheel. The cop's feet crunch against the gravel as he approaches.
You give him your license and registration when he asks for it, then hear the gravel crunching again as he walks back to his car. You look at the clock. Six minutes. Maybe he'll just make it quick so you can get out of here. You hear the crunching.
"I noticed you were going 30 over," he says in a serious, matter-of-fact tone. You take a deep breath and say nothing.
"Well," he breaks the silence, "I'd like to congratulate you." A frown. Congratulate? Is he being sarcastic? "I'd like to congratulate you because you could have been going 50 over, but you were only going 30 over. Not only that, but when I turned my lights on, you slowed down, turned your blinker on, and pulled over, when you could have hit the gas and started a high-speed chase."
Wonder. Straighter posture, just a bit. What was he saying?
"You're wearing your seat belt, and--oh," he hands you back your license and registration, "your car is registered. You're also driving with a valid licence."
Now you turn your head and make eye contact, trying to put no expression on your face.
"And one more thing. I noticed that you were driving in your own lane the entire time." You blink. He smiles--genuinely--and says, "So congratulations, sir. Driving in your own lane, wearing your seat belt, driving a registered car, having a valid driver's licence, and only going 30 over instead of 50 over? Well, I'm going to let you go."
"Really?" He could still playing some sarcastic game.
"Of course. You made the safer choice." He walks away. You reach up with your right hand and turn the key.
 |
| I didn't make this picture--and it's only vaguely relevant--but it is pretty awesome. |
You give him your license and registration when he asks for it, then hear the gravel crunching again as he walks back to his car. You look at the clock. Six minutes. Maybe he'll just make it quick so you can get out of here. You hear the crunching.
"I noticed you were going 30 over," he says in a serious, matter-of-fact tone. You take a deep breath and say nothing.
"Well," he breaks the silence, "I'd like to congratulate you." A frown. Congratulate? Is he being sarcastic? "I'd like to congratulate you because you could have been going 50 over, but you were only going 30 over. Not only that, but when I turned my lights on, you slowed down, turned your blinker on, and pulled over, when you could have hit the gas and started a high-speed chase."
Wonder. Straighter posture, just a bit. What was he saying?
"You're wearing your seat belt, and--oh," he hands you back your license and registration, "your car is registered. You're also driving with a valid licence."
Now you turn your head and make eye contact, trying to put no expression on your face.
"And one more thing. I noticed that you were driving in your own lane the entire time." You blink. He smiles--genuinely--and says, "So congratulations, sir. Driving in your own lane, wearing your seat belt, driving a registered car, having a valid driver's licence, and only going 30 over instead of 50 over? Well, I'm going to let you go."
"Really?" He could still playing some sarcastic game.
"Of course. You made the safer choice." He walks away. You reach up with your right hand and turn the key.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
The Pen that Refused to Work
There once was a man who had a job that required him to write things down by hand. He had a whole drawer full of pens and paper, and he usually didn't think much about which pen he was using as long as the pen worked. Sometimes the man would pick up a pen and start writing with it, but the pen would not work. So he scribbled in little circles on the edge of a piece of paper in hopes that the pen would start working. It did, and the man was able to get on with his work.
But there was one pen that would not work, even when the man scribbled in little circles with it for quite some time. He would pick up the pen and start writing, and the first few letters would come out all right, but then the pen would suddenly stop working. The man went back to try to correct the letters, but the pen would still not work. So he scribbled in little circles with it. This worked with all the other pens, so why should it not work with this one? He scribbled and scribbled and the pen began working, but when he started to write with it, it would stop.
The man checked the ink level in the pen. The pen was full of ink, and the man could not understand why the pen would not work when he wanted it to.
So he scribbled in little circles and, again, the ink would begin to flow. But then it would stop. The man scribbled and scribbled for what seemed like a long time, but there was no change in the pen's nature. Ink. No ink. Start. Stop. The pen's ink would flow forth as if this time it was finally going to keep working. But then it would stop.
So the man, knowing that he had a whole drawer full of pens that would work and desiring to continue his labor, threw the pen away.
But there was one pen that would not work, even when the man scribbled in little circles with it for quite some time. He would pick up the pen and start writing, and the first few letters would come out all right, but then the pen would suddenly stop working. The man went back to try to correct the letters, but the pen would still not work. So he scribbled in little circles with it. This worked with all the other pens, so why should it not work with this one? He scribbled and scribbled and the pen began working, but when he started to write with it, it would stop.
The man checked the ink level in the pen. The pen was full of ink, and the man could not understand why the pen would not work when he wanted it to.
So he scribbled in little circles and, again, the ink would begin to flow. But then it would stop. The man scribbled and scribbled for what seemed like a long time, but there was no change in the pen's nature. Ink. No ink. Start. Stop. The pen's ink would flow forth as if this time it was finally going to keep working. But then it would stop.
So the man, knowing that he had a whole drawer full of pens that would work and desiring to continue his labor, threw the pen away.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
A Farmer and His Chickens, by Kenneth Burke
Months passed, and it eventually came time for the farmer and his family to eat the chickens. The farmer grabbed his gun and his ax and went out to the chicken coop. He also brought with him the bell. When the farmer got to the chicken coop he loaded his gun and rang the bell. Then the chickens came running.
The chickens were trained to believe that it was time to eat when the bell rang. But when the situation changed, they did not understand that the bell no longer signified that they would receive food--on the contrary, it now signified that they would become food. The chickens had been trained in a way that made them incapable to see things from another perspective.
So the chickens were killed, and the farmer and his family ate.
(This post is a retelling of an idea from Kenneth Burke's Permanence and Change 7-10.)
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Crossing a Crosswalk in the Rain
Ben had been running, and it was time to turn around and go home. He knew it was time for two reasons: first, he was tired, and second, he was drenched. He wasn't drenched with sweat, however (at least, hopefully he didn't sweat that much); he was drenched because it had been pouring down rain ever since he left his house. Ben wasn't very cold though--his own movements had kept him warm, but he knew he didn't want to stay out in the rain much longer, as exhilarating and liberating as running in the rain might be.
So he turned around and ran the other direction.
There were no other faces in the rain that day. Ben was the only person on the sidewalk, probably thanks to the downpour, and the only other traces of human beings were the cars, trucks, vans, and suburbans that came constantly up and down the 4-lane road. There was a variety of them, just like there would be in any other city. Their headlights illuminated the drops of water that fell from the sky, drops that were otherwise invisible unless you looked at the ground and saw their points of impact on the wet surfaces. But there were no faces. Ben tried to look through the windows of the passing cars. He wanted to catch a glimpse of another human being, another face. But he couldn't see anything, or anyone, inside.
Ben knew he would need to cross the street in order to return home, but there were too many vehicles and no room or place for him to cross. Like a wall. He couldn't just run across the road. If he did, his actions would cause some of these vehicles to slam on their brakes which would then get them rear-ended by the vehicles that drove behind them. It wouldn't be a pretty sight, even if he didn't get hit. No, he wouldn't--couldn't--just run across the road, even though that's what he had done on his way down. It didn't make sense; it wasn't logical. Besides, there was a crosswalk up ahead. It wasn't far, and he would get there soon enough. He would cross at the crosswalk.
Ben kept running. Rain landed on his cheeks and in his eyes when the wind blew, so sometimes he had to squint to see where he was stepping. Earlier, the rain would mix with his sweat and with the gel that he hadn't washed out of his hair before he went running. Then the rain-gel-sweat would drip into his eyes and sting. But now there wasn't really any gel left. Just water and sweat.
Ben was getting closer to the crosswalk.
There sure were a lot of cars. Endless, they seemed. Ben wondered why there were so many and where they were headed. He also wondered about the people, those faces that he couldn't see but that he knew were still inside these vehicles, somewhere. He thought about how each face, each person was headed in a specific direction and towards a specific destination. Each also had a reason for being in his or her car at that particular time, and each had some idea of where he or she was going. Where exactly were they all going? What was on their agenda? How long would these cars stay on the same road together, and when would they part company without ever actually meeting, without ever actually seeing the face behind those other windshields?
Ben approached the crosswalk and slowed, letting his shoes slap against the sidewalk in a small puddle. It was one of those crosswalks that is not at an intersection, but that still has a button for pedestrians to push so they can safely cross. Unless the system is malfunctioning, the traffic light above the crosswalk is always green unless a pedestrian pushes the crosswalk button. Then it would turn red and stop traffic.
Ben was the only one around and wanted to cross the street. He pushed the button. It was one of those buttons that isn't really a button but a slab of metal that you don't really push--when your finger touches the metal, a little red light blinks and you hear a two short tones, a higher one followed by one that is less high. As is typical with these kind of crosswalks when they haven't had a pedestrian in a while, the stoplights turn yellow and then red almost immediately. Those lights had to turn red in order for the pedestrian light to turn green. The masses had to stop so that the individual could cross.
Ben watched the stoplight change color. And as it turned to red, Ben saw the consequences of his act. It was a chain reaction. At first, a car in one lane kept driving, even though the light was red. But the other vehicles stopped at the red light. Then the vehicles behind them stopped, and so on, down as far as Ben could see in the rain. He looked through the windshield of the car in front and thought he saw the outline of a face that was distorted by the wet windshield. The wipers passed in front of the outline, yet the image didn't get any clearer to Ben.
But the cars on both sides of the road had stopped--all of them. Or rather, he had stopped them. It didn't matter what their destination was, why they were on the road, or even how late they were. They were not moving. It was almost as if Ben had stopped time and parted a sea of rubber, fiberglass, plastic, aluminum, and steel. But he wasn't crossing on dry ground.
One small act of raising an arm and touching a metal pole to some degree changed this corner of the world--not just for Ben, but for every face in every vehicles, those faces that sat there waiting for a lone, soaking pedestrian to cross the street so he could go home.
Only then could they continue their journey to their respective destinations.
So he turned around and ran the other direction.
There were no other faces in the rain that day. Ben was the only person on the sidewalk, probably thanks to the downpour, and the only other traces of human beings were the cars, trucks, vans, and suburbans that came constantly up and down the 4-lane road. There was a variety of them, just like there would be in any other city. Their headlights illuminated the drops of water that fell from the sky, drops that were otherwise invisible unless you looked at the ground and saw their points of impact on the wet surfaces. But there were no faces. Ben tried to look through the windows of the passing cars. He wanted to catch a glimpse of another human being, another face. But he couldn't see anything, or anyone, inside.
Ben knew he would need to cross the street in order to return home, but there were too many vehicles and no room or place for him to cross. Like a wall. He couldn't just run across the road. If he did, his actions would cause some of these vehicles to slam on their brakes which would then get them rear-ended by the vehicles that drove behind them. It wouldn't be a pretty sight, even if he didn't get hit. No, he wouldn't--couldn't--just run across the road, even though that's what he had done on his way down. It didn't make sense; it wasn't logical. Besides, there was a crosswalk up ahead. It wasn't far, and he would get there soon enough. He would cross at the crosswalk.Ben kept running. Rain landed on his cheeks and in his eyes when the wind blew, so sometimes he had to squint to see where he was stepping. Earlier, the rain would mix with his sweat and with the gel that he hadn't washed out of his hair before he went running. Then the rain-gel-sweat would drip into his eyes and sting. But now there wasn't really any gel left. Just water and sweat.
Ben was getting closer to the crosswalk.
There sure were a lot of cars. Endless, they seemed. Ben wondered why there were so many and where they were headed. He also wondered about the people, those faces that he couldn't see but that he knew were still inside these vehicles, somewhere. He thought about how each face, each person was headed in a specific direction and towards a specific destination. Each also had a reason for being in his or her car at that particular time, and each had some idea of where he or she was going. Where exactly were they all going? What was on their agenda? How long would these cars stay on the same road together, and when would they part company without ever actually meeting, without ever actually seeing the face behind those other windshields?
Ben approached the crosswalk and slowed, letting his shoes slap against the sidewalk in a small puddle. It was one of those crosswalks that is not at an intersection, but that still has a button for pedestrians to push so they can safely cross. Unless the system is malfunctioning, the traffic light above the crosswalk is always green unless a pedestrian pushes the crosswalk button. Then it would turn red and stop traffic.
Ben was the only one around and wanted to cross the street. He pushed the button. It was one of those buttons that isn't really a button but a slab of metal that you don't really push--when your finger touches the metal, a little red light blinks and you hear a two short tones, a higher one followed by one that is less high. As is typical with these kind of crosswalks when they haven't had a pedestrian in a while, the stoplights turn yellow and then red almost immediately. Those lights had to turn red in order for the pedestrian light to turn green. The masses had to stop so that the individual could cross.
Ben watched the stoplight change color. And as it turned to red, Ben saw the consequences of his act. It was a chain reaction. At first, a car in one lane kept driving, even though the light was red. But the other vehicles stopped at the red light. Then the vehicles behind them stopped, and so on, down as far as Ben could see in the rain. He looked through the windshield of the car in front and thought he saw the outline of a face that was distorted by the wet windshield. The wipers passed in front of the outline, yet the image didn't get any clearer to Ben.
But the cars on both sides of the road had stopped--all of them. Or rather, he had stopped them. It didn't matter what their destination was, why they were on the road, or even how late they were. They were not moving. It was almost as if Ben had stopped time and parted a sea of rubber, fiberglass, plastic, aluminum, and steel. But he wasn't crossing on dry ground.
One small act of raising an arm and touching a metal pole to some degree changed this corner of the world--not just for Ben, but for every face in every vehicles, those faces that sat there waiting for a lone, soaking pedestrian to cross the street so he could go home.
Only then could they continue their journey to their respective destinations.
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