Experience, Evidence, and Wisdom

 

I have learned much from listening to people speak of what has happened to them. To ignore lived experience is foolish, for experience is how life first presents itself to us.

And yet, I have also learned that experience, by itself, can easily mislead.

Two people may drink the same wine: one falls ill, the other feels no effect at all. It would be strange to conclude, on this basis alone, that the wine is poison ... or that it is harmless. The wise person pauses and asks: What is typical? What is rare? And how can we tell the difference?

Our own experiences matter. But they are only one data point in a world of enormous variation. Some bodies are unusually sensitive. Some circumstances are unusual. Some harms are real, and yet still uncommon.

This is why, when we wish to know what is generally true, we do not rely only on our own story, or even the stories of those closest to us. Instead, we gather many stories, from many people, across many conditions. We compare, we measure, and we look for patterns that persist beyond individual cases.

This does not mean dismissing those who suffered. It means refusing to turn suffering into a universal rule without sufficient grounds.

Wisdom, then, requires a certain humility: the willingness to accept that my experience may not be the norm. And also the courage to accept that sometimes the broader evidence tells a story different from the one my own life happens to tell.

If we abandon objective evidence whenever it conflicts with our personal experience, we are left not with truth, but with competing testimonies; each sincere, each partial, and none able to guide us reliably beyond ourselves.

The task of reason is not to silence experience, but to place it in context.

Labels, Labels, Labels

 

We humans are complex beings. And yet, we often find ourselves reducing each other to simple labels. So, tell me, my friend, when you call someone “woke,” what is it that you believe you are describing?

Do you mean that this person is naïve?
That they are arrogant?
That they label others as “racist,” “sexist,” or “transphobic” too quickly?

If so, then you are troubled by the way they reduce complex matters to a single, dismissive word. But consider this: when you label them as “woke,” are you not doing precisely the same thing?

You take a whole human being, with fears, hopes, virtues, and mistakes, and compress them into one small syllable meant to end the conversation rather than begin it.

Is that fair?
Is it wise?
Is it even accurate?

Could there be another path?

Instead of ending the dialogue with a label, perhaps we might open the dialogue with a question. Instead of assuming the worst, we might ask what they actually mean, and why they believe as they do.

For labels close minds.
Questions open them.

And in a time when everyone is quick to classify and condemn, maybe the bravest act is simply to stay curious.

Fighting and Riding the Waves

 

Image generated with the help of ChatGPT (OpenAI)

 

Do we achieve more by fighting the waves or by riding with them? Will our anger make the traffic move any faster? Does shouting opinions at other opinions online truly improve the world?

Some things are within our control, but most are not. How much frustration might we spare ourselves if we recognized where to direct our energies? We want the world to be better, of course. But pouring effort into the things we cannot change will not bring that about.

Perhaps a better approach is to begin each day by reminding ourselves that we will encounter obstacles and people we do not like. Most of these cannot be changed. But we do have power over one thing: our own response. If we choose to respond with calm wisdom, the sting of these events lessens. Others may even be influenced by our example, and in this way, we might quietly contribute to a better world after all.

So tell me, my friend: will you oppose every wave as though the sea itself were your enemy? Or will you seek wisdom to know which to resist and which to ride?

Is this the worst day ever?

 

Remember, my friend, whenever you think you are having the worst day possible, there is usually a way to imagine an even worse day. Perspective might not fix the problem you're currently facing, but it can sometimes help you deal with it in a less catastrophic way.

Why Do I Keep Forgetting What I Already Know?

 

(image by DALL·E - Open AI)

Why do I always forget the things I know? 

When climate deniers post online, I know there’s little point in responding. They’re not open to it. And yet, there I am again, writing lengthy replies, attempting to educate people who have already made their minds up. 

When I get stuck in traffic, I get frustrated and angry, as if this will help. The traffic is beyond my control. But the time I choose to leave home? That IS under my control. So, am I angry with the traffic… or at myself for forgetting this simple truth?

Every day, I feel anxious before teaching. But, in all these years, no harm has come to me in a classroom. Why do I forget this?

Am I cursed to always forget and relearn, like Sisyphus, pushing the boulder up hill, only to watch it roll back down? 

Maybe.

But maybe this is part of being human? 

I wonder… would I have it any other way?

Why Do They Have It So Good?

 

(image by DALL·E - Open AI)

As we struggle through life's challenges, we sometimes look at others with a feeling of envy. That envy can turn to anger. Why do all the bad things happen to me? Why do other people have such good lives? What did I do to deserve this? But, isn't this anger based on a false assumption: that others aren't struggling too?

Even the world's richest man appears unable to buy happiness. As we watch online tirades, arguments with politicians, and manic public displays, we realize that wealth is no guarantee of peace and tranquility. It certainly does not guarantee happiness. 

Not everyone has to worry about where their next meal will come from. But we all crawl through a life of thistle and thorn, relentlessly approaching the same final destination. Realizing that our fellow humans also struggle helps us see them in a different light. Perhaps our envy can turn to empathy. Perhaps our anger can turn to compassion. 

Will this ease our pain? Maybe not. But if we treat each other better, might that be enough?

What's in a name?

 

In the wise city of Christchurch, there is a library named Tūranga. A simple but elegant name, with a connection to local heritage. It means "stopping place". Recently, I encountered a lively debate about the building's name. Some people argued that the word "library" must be included so that everyone would know the building's function. Others argued that the name is fine as it is. In my usual manner, I joined the conversation and offered these words:
----

Tell me, friends: when you enter a building filled with books, with people reading, learning, gathering—do you know it is a library only if the word “library” is printed on the wall?

And if a place calls itself by another name—say, Tūranga—yet offers all the treasures of a library, have you been deceived? Or have you simply encountered a name that carries history, spirit, and meaning unfamiliar to you?

I wonder: should every place declare its purpose in plain English? Must every restaurant be called “restaurant,” every museum “museum”? Is The Smithsonian not a museum because the word is missing?

Perhaps we are asking the wrong question. Not “Does it say ‘library’?” but “Does it act as one?” Not “Is the name familiar to me?” but “Am I willing to learn what it means to others?”

There are many ways to name a place. But there is only one way to close our minds—by refusing to ask.

Calm in doing less

 

image generated by DALL·E

The pressures of life can be overwhelming, and often lead to stress and anxiety. But where do these pressures come from? Could it be that we create them ourselves?

We try to squeeze so much into our days. We work hard, take on new hobbies, and feel compelled to say “yes” whenever someone asks us for help. It’s not surprising that we feel stretched and stressed. We don’t even have time to ask ourselves, “does all this activity truly make me happy?”

So, what is the solution? Could it be that by doing less, we gain more—not in quantity, but in clarity and peace? Perhaps we should focus only on what truly matters, and set the rest aside. This may help reduce pressure while also giving us space to do the important things better.

If doing less leads to happiness, why do we ignore this wisdom?

The Problem with Knowledge

 

The problem with our beliefs is that they’re often false. We assume we know many things, but upon closer examination, we find that our knowledge is riddled with errors and misconceptions. We go about our lives, confidently asserting truths, only to be confronted with evidence that contradicts our most cherished convictions.

Consider, for example, the beliefs we hold about justice, virtue, or the good life. Are these beliefs truly grounded in knowledge, or do they simply reflect the opinions we’ve absorbed from others? We may believe ourselves to be just, virtuous, or wise, but how often do we question the foundation of these beliefs? How often do we scrutinize them to see if they withstand the test of reason?

Let us examine a particular belief, and we shall see how easily it crumbles under the weight of inquiry. Suppose one believes that justice is the interest of the stronger, as some have claimed. But upon reflection, does this belief hold up? Does might truly make right, or is justice something more? The belief, once held with certainty, now wavers as we recognize the complexity of the concept and the inadequacy of our understanding.

This, my friends, is the danger of unexamined beliefs. We live by them, yet they may be false, leading us astray in our pursuit of truth. It is only through constant questioning, through the dialectical method, that we can approach the truth and expose the falsehoods lurking in our beliefs.

And here lies the crux of the matter: because my beliefs are often false, they cannot be counted as knowledge. And because I don’t know which of my beliefs are true, I cannot even consider those as knowledge. In fact, the only belief I know to be true is my belief that I know nothing.

Is it wise to argue with experts?

 

In recent years, I've noticed a growing tendency for people to argue with experts on topics they know little about. Is this wise? Undoubtedly, asking questions is a good thing. A well-constructed question can lead to a clearer explanation. Sometimes, a very well-constructed question may lead an expert to recognize an error in their own reasoning. But, does the asking of such questions make one an expert? I don't think so. Without expertise, one must provisionally accept the answers given by experts. Why? Because, one cannot tell whether or not the expert is correct without holding equivalent expert knowledge. So, I recommend asking questions that clarify assumptions, evidence, and implications. But let's not argue about matters beyond our own expertise.