Tradition

It is the method by which we perpetuate culture, passing on beliefs, ideas, or customs from one generation to the next. Traditions form the basis of cultural identity, the mortar with which a family, a city, a country builds its personality. They are often unassailable bastions at the core of history for a people.

And that's why they're dangerous.

Traditions are often immune to challenge, merely by virtue of being "traditions": doing something "because that's the way we've always done it", whether it's who carves the turkey, how we set up the Christmas decorations, or how we venerate people in the past. And while culture is often an excuse, "the past" is really the key point here, because tradition looks only to the past and only with longing in its eyes.

The hidden assumption in tradition is this: the way things were done before is the best way and will always be the best way going forward. That assumption is quite often wrong. If a behavior is, in fact, the best method, then it should be able to stand on its own without being labeled "traditional"; if it is not, then no amount of reverence for history should prevent the best choice from being made. "Tradition" implies that a bunch of desert nomads from 2000 years ago could know what's best for people living in hundred-story high rises. It implies that a handful of rich white men from a few hundred years ago knew what was best for computer gamers and gun owners today. It argues that, because something was done in a specific way at some point in the past, that way is now a priori the best way and should never change.

As Toscanini said, "Tradition is just the last bad performance."

There are reasons to value cultural, historical or social traditions in the context of history, such as teaching traditional art forms, languages, or even rites. But those traditions should never be divorced from the time period in which they arose or their own cultural histories: why things were done a certain way, what the justification was, the effects of that tradition on future history, etc. Traditions should be valued as artifacts in the same way we value physical artifacts: as curiosities and points of reference, not as relevant for today's world. We can appreciate the role of ceremonial dance and religion in the political and social framework of pre-modern cultures without feeling the need to revere them, the same way we can appreciate an old flint knife without feeling the need to give up stainless steel or carbonite.

History shouldn't be ignored, but neither should it be placed on a pedestal and worshipped. Good practice and good information can stand on its own without arbitrary enforcement: if something is useful, it is useful whether it is old or new. We study Aristotle, Euclid, Newton and Freud not because of tradition but because of the inherent value of their statements and ideas, even if we've proven them "wrong" (or at least restrictive) in the intervening years: they are stepping stones along the path to modern logic, mathematics, physics and psychology. Just as we can appreciate Bach and Mozart without limiting ourselves to Baroque music and abandoning the Romantic period, we can appreciate the trappings of history without feeling the need to continue them and, instead, improve or even abandon them as need arises.

As we approach a holiday season that is often draped in traditions, don't be afraid to abandon them. If you find yourself sad or depressed, it may be because you're trying to cling to an outmoded idea of "should" that no longer fits - a tradition that is no longer useful. Embrace whatever celebrations or routines that you find useful, even if they aren't "traditional": go out instead of eating in, invite close friends to dinner instead of family, skip the presents and donate to charity or spend time at a soup kitchen - whatever it is that you feel is a better fit for you and your life today, not what you've been taught "should" be done.

Tradition looks to the past, but, while we must remember what has come before so as not to repeat the same mistakes, the past is not a model by which we can live. Progress exists only in the future, and with it comes the most powerful force we know - the thing that can forever destroy the historical, repetitive, traditional grievances of life:

Hope.

Seeing isn't believing

"Observation" isn't a direct action.

We see things because light bounces off of them and reflects into our eyes (biological processes aside). We often think of this as "seeing the object", but the key here is that light itself is a thing, and it's really the light you're seeing: you have no direct interaction with the object. You only interact with it through the intermediation of light.

All observation takes place like this: whether it's photons (light), electrons, or anything else, the only way to "observe" something remotely is to bounce things off of it. Most of the time, this doesn't matter much: photons bouncing off of "normal"-sized objects don't do much to the object. When we're talking about atomic or subatomic levels, however, the relative sizes between the thing we're trying to observe and the particle we're using to "see" it are much closer. As such, "bouncing" anything off of them knocks them around, similar to pool balls on a table.

The result, as Werner Heisenberg determined, is that we can only take one measurement - one observation - of a particle at any point, because as soon as you take one (usually position or velocity), you change the particle's other properties. This has been formally labelled "Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle", and it forever broke down the myth of the "impartial observer" - someone (usually a scientist) who could sit back and "just watch" without interfering with a process.

Heisenberg's was the first blow to the notion of the independent observer, but it wasn't the last. Quantum theory, as it has developed, has focused more and more on particles themselves existing in what we identify today as some kind of probability wave. In short, if you shoot an electron out of a tube pointed in a given direction, you can have a general idea about where the electron may be at any given moment but you can't be sure. That's not surprising in itself for most people; the part that is hard to understand is that for observed results to be correct, saying the electron is actually anywhere doesn't work. The uncertainty in its location isn't just a factor of us not knowing - it seems to be intrinsic to the particle itself.

Here's the classical experiment. We have an electron gun pointed at a wall with two slits in it; logically, the electron can only travel through one or the other slit. However, if we place a piece of electron-sensitive paper on the other side of the slits to see where the electron ended up, we get something odd: the pattern that results can only occur if the electron takes both possible paths, not just one or the other. This is true even if the electrons are fired one at a time with enough time for the first to hit before the second is released.

Let me restate that, because it's possible to miss the implication: in order to account for what we actually see happen, we have to assume that part of the electron - something indivisible under normal circumstances - passes through each slit. The notion that we can't know its position isn't just a factor of our not having the precision to determine it: according to results, the particle has no definite position until it reaches the paper and, it seems, has to take all potential paths to get there. Our best understanding of this is that it exists only as a probability, and that somehow those potential probabilities are what interact and cause the observed pattern.

It gets weirder: if we set up a system to watch the electron as it passes through the slits so that we can observe which one it goes through, the odd pattern requiring the probability explanation disappears; the result is explanable with classical physics models. So, it appears that the electron behaves like a single particle once we observe it, but until we do, it behaves like a set of probabilities. Furthermore, this is true not just of electrons but of every particle the process has been tested with: as near as we can tell, all matter exists probabilistally until observed and classically after observation.

Now, in all likelihood, what's occurring here is probably not and "actual" change in the nature of the particle but some kind of observational distortion similar to Heisenberg's Uncertainty; that being said, scientists have tried to disprove this and other weird aspects about quantum theory for years to no avail. Philosophers and religious types, of course, have taken this "elevation of the observer" to dizzying heights [pardon the pun] in an attempt to "scientifically" validate free will, all manners of Gods, or whatever unprovable phenomenon they prefer. The use of probability as a model for understanding quantum theory also led to Einstein's famous admonition that God "does not play dice with the universe"; unfortunate for the good professor, observational evidence seems to disagree.

Even if we discount the philosophical extensions, the increased awareness of observation and its participation in the process can be very useful. In "real world" terms, there are far more practical impacts to observation than simply photons kareening around like billiard balls: namely, the fact that everything we observe not only has to pass through intermediary objects and multiple analog processing systems, but that it then has to be interpreted by us. Bringing into focus how our biology and psychology can affect our observations (and, thus, our interactions with and even thoughts about everything around us) is the focus of general semantics, but that's for another day.

For now, just try to keep in mind that you aren't really reacting to the world - you're reacting to reactions to the world, and even then through a layer of interpretation.

Words

Written Chinese is a pictographic language: the symbols are representational, with each depicting a full word or concept. For example, the word for "island" was, originally, a picture of a mountain in the water where birds land; the current version has been "blurred" by the use of brush instead of stylus, but you can still make out some of the concept.

What's important here is that, with pictures, you can't really denote tense - the desgination of whether something already happened, is happening, or will happen in the future. As such, written - and even spoken - Chinese has no real tense for any verb. If you want to say you went to the doctor yesterday, you quite literally say, "I go to the doctor yesterday."

Chinese is of course not the only language that has this issue - and English has plenty of problems on its own. While these differences go a long ways towards explaining the odd syntax foreigners use in non-native languages, there are other implications.

Scientific studies have shown that, if your language doesn't have a word or concept for something, it is much more difficult - if not downright impossible - for you to think in terms of that thing. Colors and musical scales are easy examples: anyone used to "western" music will have a very hard time differentiating all the notes in Indian music. People joke that Innuit have 50 words for "snow", but what they really have is 50 different things they can identify which, to us, are all simply "snow": we lack an awareness of differentiation that they can make.

Most people I know look at a block of code and simply say, "Oh, it's a program." However, I differentiate between: markup, interpreted, and complied code; imperative, procedural, object-oriented, and functional languages; etc. I have words for all of these, and thus I also have concepts behind the words.

And, having the word and the concept influences other aspects. Philosophies in China (and similar Asian culturs) tend towards timelessness, reincarnation, and "balance" between action and non-action - all of which makes sense when we consider that their language doesn't easily differentiate between past, present, and future. If I can't describe the differences between tenses, won't my phrasing - and eventually my thought pattern - reflect that kind of timelessness?

I've heard one definition of "genius" which states it as the ability to conceive of something that one doesn't have the language to describe. Many of us have invented words at times, trying to differentiate something that heretofor hasn't been differentiated. Sometimes it's a matter of nuance, and sometimes it's simply a concept that doesn't exist in our native language. A recent addition to the English language (beyond mere technical or "slang" terms) is the concept of a "meme", defined by Richard Dawkins.

This is probably the best argument for studying multiple languages - and not just ones with a common root. If you speak English, learning German - or even a romance language - doesn't give you nearly as much as learning Greek, Chinese, or Russian. At the same time, English has become the international language not just because of the power of English-speaking countries like the US but because of its amazing breadth: English has adopted/stolen/incorporated more words and concepts from other languages than any other language in existence. It also has more tenses than any other, and so one can make more precise statements in English than in any other language - a major benefit in technical and scientific fields.

And, yet, any language still has its limits. My favorite example of a concept which does not exist in English is that of the Greek arete: it's been loosely translated as "virtue" or "purpose", but "essence of being" would also be close. None are exact, though; it's a concept which only exists in abstract association in English, and yet was so intrinsic to Greek culture that it is the reason for the Olympics.

The important factor to remember is this: even the language you speak can frame the concepts of which you can think. It's important to try to work beyond linguistics to more abstract thoughts that cannot be easily converted into language. Who knows - you might even get to make up a new word.

Just the facts

We live in a world that follows rules. We don't know what most of those rules are; some of them, we understand a bit and can approximate to decent levels. Not knowing the rules, however, doesn't change the fact that the rules exist and are pretty consistent.

The more you know about the rules and about the world around you, the better off you'll be in trying to maneuver through life. To this end, the most important thing in life is the truth. If you don't have facts and real information, any decision you make is automatically flawed. Deteriming what is real - what is truth - is the most important act you will ever undertake.

What's more, you'll have to make that determination every moment of every day of your life. As I said, we only know approximations of some of the rules; the rest are either completely unknown or guesses at best. Sometimes we don't even know that a rule exists. So, every time you hear a statement or learn a fact, you need to be able to make a determination on the truth of that statement or fact.

The most obvious way to verify a statement is to see if it's consistent with what you can observe in the world around you. If someone tells you the sky is pink but you look up and see it's blue, you've just falsified that information. If someone tells you that "doing x will cause y", and you do "x" repeatedly but "y" doesn't happen, you've falsified that statement; if "y" *does* happen, you know that the statement has truth in it.

While it would be great to say that something is either true or false, we don't have a way to do so most of the time. The best we can sometimes do is approximations - deteriming whether something is likely true or likely false rather than absolutely true or false. Some statements are easily proven true but hard to falsify; for others, the reverse is true and it's easy to falisfy but hard to prove. There are also statements which can't be proven either way - sometimes because we don't have the ability right now, sometimes because we'll never have the ability.

The most important thing in any life is truth, and the most important skill you can hone is learning how to identify level of truth in a statement. Observable reality is the only measuring stick of value. If something doesn't match up with observable reality, it simply isn't true.

The map is not the territory.

Most people have no clue what that phrase means, but it's very important.

In a park near you, there is likely a tree of some sort. It doesn't matter if it's tall or short, evergreen or perennial, flowering or not. The tree exists.

You have an image of the tree, a concept of it, a description. You can reference it in conversations with others, or in poetry if the fancy takes you, because of this. But, and here is the tricky part, the concept you have of the tree is not the same thing as the tree itself.

The tree exists as a thing, whether you think of it or not, whether you name it or not, whether you comprehend it or not. The thing itself, the existence that is true even if there was nothing to observe it, is called a nuomenon. Your idea of the thing, your descriptions and memories and such, are called the phenomenon (which is "the thing as perceived"). The two are very distinct.

A single nuomenon can have multiple phenomena - in fact, there's at least one for every observer. Each person, animal, insect, or even bacteria experiences the tree separately and thus has a different, unique way of describing it. These phenomena can be related, shared between people (or other creatures) with words or sounds or scents.

The thing itself, though - the nuomenon - is singular. It exists independent of (and in fact outside) observation, and it cannot be related or experienced. In a sense, the phenomenon is the map of your neighborhood, while the nuomenon is the actual neighborhood itself. The map is useful, but it can't in any way represent the full reality of the neighborhood: the smells, the sights, the friendliness or animosity of neighbors, etc.

The point is, the two are separate. The description or experience of something, while useful, is not the thing itself. The map is not the territory.

The problem arises when people begin to think that the map is the territory: when they start to mentally think of their description of something as being equivalent to the thing itself. One very common but unfortunate example of this is stereotyping: someone recognizes a prominant characteristic of a group of people and then uses that characteristic (and usually whatever negative traits they associate with it) as the full description of anyone in the group. Individuals are, obviously, individuals, and usually differ drastically in many ways, but to the stereotyper, their description (the map) has become synonymous with the individual (the territory).

Other examples:

•  In organizations, the tendancy over time is to being to treat the company like an org chart or process description with people merely filling in roles. This generally causes tension and discord, since organizations are living, fluid, dymanic systems.
• In science, many scientists who have worked with certain theories over time begin to think like the theory is reality, rather than just being a description of reality; this often leads to drama when data arises that doesn't fit the theory.
• In schools, grades have become the reason for the classes, rather than a method for demonstrating understanding of the content of the classes. A high test score is not equivalent to comprehension of the content.

Sometimes, people try to confuse map and territory deliberately. A good example of this is the "Tea Party", which is trying to get people to see the entire party as only one aspect of the movement (the anti-government portion) and completely miss the full spectrum of what the movement is actually doing/vowing to do (to be fair, most political parties do this).

Maps should be dynamic: they change as new information becomes available, just like Google updating their satellite photos. Too often, mistaking the map for the territory leads to undue dependency or emotional ties to a specific map. That makes it harder (if not impossible) for the individual to adapt as reality changes, and makes any decisions made based on the faulty map automatically suspect.

If you ever find yourself frustrated that something isn't behaving "as it should", this is almost always a sign that your map is faulty and needs to be adjusted: either your understanding is flawed or your information is incomplete (or both). The nuomenon is perfect (in the sense that it is entirely self-consistent), so any inconsistency has to be in the phenomenon (your understanding/experience of it).

Ignoring the realities of the territory and simply assuming the map is correct can lead you to walk off of cliffs, metaphorical or otherwise.

|2b|

"It’s like doing a jigsaw puzzle where you can change the shape of the pieces as well as their positions."

This is one man's description of what programming is like from the perspective of the programmer. From a comprehensibility standpoint, I think it's pretty good.

Programming, as a function, is something that mystifies the vast majority of the population; as a programmer, I think it's safe to say that even the majority of the people paid to program have no real idea what they're doing on the conceptual level. If you ask a bunch of programmers "what do programmers do?", you'll likely hear a range of replies from the uber-technical ("transliterate a requirement") to the basic ("implement a process") - and that's just on the actual work performed. If you ask a bunch of programmers *how* they do what they do, you likely won't get any really substantive answer at all.

It "should" be simple, really. All programming languages consist of a basic series of operations and relationships; such series are notably finite and often fairly short, when you actually look at the principles - offhand, I'd say there are less than 200 specific relators covering all programming languages (though syntax often varies wildly), and probably less than 20 if we are willing to use abstraction. All we're really doing when we program is combining various objects/concepts/"things" using these relators.

Of course, "all" a painter does is put pigment on canvas, and pianists only have 72 or so notes with which to play. The complexities of painting and composition come not from the tools or options but in how those tools and options are utilized. There's a creative step, an inuitive moment or leap that takes place. This leap generally takes things we understand or comprehend and presents them in ways we do not expect and is usually founded in describing the relationship between concepts that heretofor have not been understood as related. The photographer captures profound emotion in a simple flower; the painter portrays the subject from a prespective never before seen; the musician writes a motif that recalls a spring rain.

The fundamental principle here is an understanding - albeit usually subconsciously - of relationships. To quote Lewis Carroll, why is a raven like a writing desk? The first act of creation is in establishing the existence of the unknown - the fact that something is waiting to be created. Usually, this understanding then provides the context for creation - in essence, understanding what is missing gives us the first step in understanding what it is we want to create. We then have to frame that desire in the context of our medium - the semanitcs of creation are different for photography, music, painting and poetry.

We can formalize these steps as lack (or problem), desire, and semantics. What we usually think of as the "creative step" in the series is "desire": the conceptualization of what it is we're trying to achieve in some kind of workable or formal structure. This is the "hard part", as it requires both clarification of the problem as well as realizing the limits of the semantics even while we work separately from either.

And this is the step in programming that most people don't understand. Semantics, in programming, is merely the syntax of the language - something even text editors can manage, so obviously not a major issue intellectually. The "problem" is usually input from a client or customer, though oftentimes such individuals need help clarifying exactly what it is that is wrong; still, this is a piece that is easily managed through standard processes. It is the clarification and implementation of desire that requires abstraction and the mental jigsaw puzzle: figuring out how to fulfill the needs presented in the desire under the limitations of the semantics, when there are quite literally infinite potential solutions but only a few practical ones.

Programming is, for all its technical requirements, a creative act not terribly different from any other artistic pasttime. Just like other arts, the moment of inspiration in programming cannot be laid out in a procedure or taught in a classroom. One can teach someone to use a camera, but one cannot teach someone to take inspiring photographs; one can teach someone English, but one cannot teach them to write beautiful poetry. One can teach programming languages, syntax, and grammar, but one cannot teach effective programming.

Obviously, the better a person is a coder (or photographer, or linguist, or...), the wider the range of tools and options that are available to that person while programming (or photographing, or writing, or...) However, as artforms, all these rely on moments of inspiration. One can encourage the mindset needed to have such moments, and train oneself (or others) in the sorts of abstract daydreaming that forms the basis for them, but one cannot explicitly teach inspiration itself. It comes naturally or not at all.

Sometimes other people say it best

I am the outcome of a trillion coalescing possibilities...

That's a quote from PZ Myers; go read the whole thing.