The Winding Path

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. I was lying in my bed on my back, paralysed, and I wasn’t alone. There was an unseen presence in the room, a presence with malevolent intent, an intent made clear when it rendered me immobile, constricting my chest, slowly suffocating me with its oppressive force. I couldn’t even scream, though I dearly wanted to. I have no idea how long it was there, silently watching me, squeezing the life out of me, but eventually I gained enough strength to let out a fearful plea for help. After that display of defiance I was able to muster the determination to overpower its control, wrenching myself onto my side. At that moment the presence vanished, gone as swiftly as it came, leaving only a lingering sense of terror.

That was a summary of many similar experiences that I’ve had over the years since I was a teenager. The details change, sometimes the presence is more clearly defined as an alien or a demon, sometimes there’s pressure on my chest, sometimes not. But the persistent elements are the fear, the paralysis, the sense of a presence, and the gradual recovery of control.

I’m not alone in having this type of experience. These days there are numerous accounts of “alien abduction” but in the past it was much the same though the presence wore a different face, magical creatures, witches, demons, succubi.

It’s easy to take those experiences at face value, seeing the answer to the question of what happened in the mask the presence happens to wear. It can certainly be comforting to have a personal experience of the existence of something greater, something not human, something special, no matter how frightening. If these beings are interested in us enough to go to all this trouble, that means we’re important, right?

But you have to ask yourself, as I did, can I accept an answer because of the comfort it provides, or do I want the truth? But perhaps a better question to ask is, why can’t I have both? Thankfully the answer to that last question is a resounding, “Of course you can!”

If it’s the truth you want then it’s important to know the many ways in which personal experience can distort reality. Subjective validation is what happens when we allow our beliefs to convince us of the validity of an explanation which agrees with those beliefs, even if there’s very good reason to be skeptical. Those beliefs, if we’re unaware of their affect on our reasoning, will prevent us from giving those reasons for skepticism the attention they’re due.

I previously mentioned confirmation bias, in which we pay more attention to evidence which backs our theories/beliefs, while ignoring or dismissing evidence which disagrees.

Both subjective validation and confirmation bias (as well as many other biases) can be countered by a controlled process of independent, repeated, objective evaluation. And yes, that’s possible even for something as personal as alien or evil spirit visitations. That’s the process science provides us.

If it’s comfort you want, consider what the processes of confirmation bias and subjective validation tell us. Once you’ve got as close to the truth as you possibly can, even if the journey is painful and the goal is one you don’t even want to touch, don’t you think you can find ways to turn your new-found knowledge to your advantage? Of course you can!

Take visitations by aliens of evil spirits as an example. My search for answers about my experiences led me to Sleep Paralysis, which accounts for many of the similar stories told today, and for a long time stretching into our past. It might seem that an understanding and acceptance of sleep paralysis removes some of the mystery and importance of the experience. It makes it, well, normal. But as Michael pointed out:

Contrary to being an ode to ignorance, the appreciation of mystery involves the realization [of] just how much a person could discover. Mystery is a catalyst of action, inviting investigation and analysis, not a passive reception of the unknown. A good mystery novel is not a discussion about ignorance; it’s an adventure detailing how a person acquires knowledge.

Sleep paralysis tells us so much about the way our body and brain works, and since it doesn’t deny the existence of evil spirits or aliens, simply their involvement in those particular experiences, it leaves us to devote our time and energy to searching for aliens or evil spirits elsewhere, if that’s what we want. And of course sleep paralysis is still poorly understood. There are hypotheses on why some aspects of it occur, and studies which provide further support, but in the end there are still many questions to be answered. Which is great news for me, and for you too if you truly want to understand the realities of this universe.

So ask yourself, do you really want to discover the truth? If so, how far are you willing to go, and how many beliefs are you willing to challenge to get there?

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In my previous post I mentioned that the feeling of connectedness between all humans is a metaphor for the awareness of the similarities between all humans. It’s the connectedness of similar biological makeup, and of shared ancestral social development. Over the centuries we’ve diverged, but fundamentally we are still all capable of relating to each other at a deeper level than most of us do on a daily basis.

There is much scientific evidence for the neurological basis of feelings, including those feelings often described as spiritual. But it’s unfair to label the pursuit of that evidence, and the understanding it imparts, as degradingly reductionist, concerned only with taking apart something beautiful. Likewise it’s unfair to look at the component parts and say that the beautiful thing is only a bunch of other, more mundane building blocks. As Richard Feynmann said:

I have a friend who’s an artist, and he sometimes takes a view which I don’t agree with. He’ll hold up a flower and say, “Look how beautiful it is,” and I’ll agree. But then he’ll say, “I, as an artist, can see how beautiful a flower is. But you, as a scientist, take it all apart and it becomes dull.” I think he’s kind of nutty. [...] There are all kinds of interesting questions that come from a knowledge of science, which only adds to the excitement and mystery and awe of a flower. It only adds. I don’t understand how it subtracts.

Likewise, an important point as made by Antonio Damasio in his book, Descartes’ Error.

To discover that a particular feeling depends on activity in a number of specific brain systems interacting with a number of body organs does not diminish that feeling as a human phenomenon. Neither anguish nor the elation that love or art can bring about are devalued by understanding some of the myriad biological processes that make them what they are. Precisely the opposite should be true: Our sense of wonder should increase before the intricate mechanisms that make such magic possible. Feelings form the base for what humans have described for millennia as the human soul or spirit.

As with the feeling of connectedness, the metaphors of spirituality which we intuit as a result of our personal experiences can provide guidelines by which to act, but like some metaphors they don’t necessarily define the source of that guiding force. It’s common to consider the ambiguous nature of the metaphor, and the often intangible yet certain nature of the feeling, and define the source as equally ambiguous, intangible, yet certain.

And ultimately that may be the case, yet we would miss out on much of the “excitement and mystery and awe” that this universe has to offer if we ignore the tangible basis of those things we might ascribe to an intangible source. Likewise if we ignore the intangible we ignore an alternate source of inspiration, mystery and beauty, and a potentially beneficial alternate perspective on the tangible elements of our existence.

I asked previously if spirituality were necessary. My conclusion is still the same; no it is not. But life would be far less enjoyable in the absence of the things many consider spiritual; love, beauty, compassion, etc. For some people it is beneficial to consider the essence of these things to be spiritual. That is fine as long as they don’t deny the same benefit to those who have different beliefs.

Likewise being scientific in your approach to life is not strictly necessary; one could happily live a life unconcerned with objectively verifiable evidence. Yet even if you’re happy to do away with all the benefits science has provided, I doubt many people would enjoy a life totally reliant upon instincts alone. Even building a simple shelter, even if it doesn’t require study, does require using scientific principles, as does anything else that effectively exploits an understanding of the way the world works.

What do you think? What’s your opinion of the scientific explanations of spiritual concepts, and of the spiritual aspects of “ordinary” experiences? Are they additive or subtractive, irreconcilable or complimentary?

We perceive beauty in many ways, and in many things. The most common is seeing the beauty in another person whom we love. We might also consider a particular piece of music beautiful, or the smell of a flower garden in full bloom, or the feel of silk against our skin, or the complex and interesting flavours of an unusual dish. As mentioned in my previous post on the topic, our perception affect what we consider beautiful, and it’s every one of our senses that contribute to our perception. And as Jenny just pointed out, even when our naked senses aren’t enough we can enhance them to perceive an even deeper level of beauty than we previously thought existed.

But what about other kinds of beauty that we don’t experience through one of our senses alone? Michael mentioned narrative beauty; the beauty of a story, which may be told in words, dance, song lyrics, music, or pictures. It adds another layer of beauty and creates a more powerful impression.

The concept of narrative beauty hints at the reasons why we consider a certain thing to be beautiful. Adding to what I said in my last post about beauty, the stories we hear and tell ourselves grow over time, and the greater our understanding of the stories that appeal to us, the greater our experience of their beauty, and the greater their appeal.

This process of increasing understanding, deepening experience, and greater appeal sounds familiar doesn’t it? It’s the same as the process of falling in love. Or as Michael defines it, love itself, since love is a process, not just an abstract concept describing an emotion.

Perhaps this explains why we love the things we consider beautiful, and believe all the people we love are beautiful. No matter how plain a baby is, the mother will always see him or her as beautiful. Perhaps it’s a survival mechanism, but it certainly involves very strong emotions and I bet someone experiencing such emotions would find it hard to define them as either beauty or love, or an inseparable mixture of both.

Just as we can’t completely define love, and just as different people have different opinions of what love is, so do we have differing opinions of beauty. It’s possible that this is because not only do we experience a large range of emotions, but we interpret each of our emotions and levels of emotion differently. We then try to communicate our interpretation to each other but inevitably use words that match with a different interpretation in the other person.

So it the end beauty can’t be clearly defined, but that’s ok; it doesn’t make anything any less beautiful.