Anecdotes
Anecdotes
The old house I’ve recently moved in has a forgetful elevator. One can push the button of the floor they want to arrive at, but the elevator will remain still, even after its doors have closed. In order to get it moving, one must push the button once again, or for the first time, strictly a few seconds after the door closure.
One day, upon my arrival at the house’s gate, I saw an older lady rushing in. I was about to enter the gate code for the gate that just closed, but the next thing I saw was the lady hurrying out. „I forgot something!” – she exclaimed. I acknowledged it with a nod, and continued my walk towards the elevator. By the time the elevator had reached our ground floor, the lady came back into the house. She joined me in the elevator.
„This is a very forgetful elevator” – she explained. „It wasn’t always like this… Maybe there are too many old people in this house” – she added, laughing. „Never mind” – she continued – „old, but good, the main thing is that is serves us well. Hopefully it will stay functioning for long.” I wanted to add that a similarly kind and patient attitude could be displayed, towards herself and the other old people in the house, but by that time, she said goodbye, and got out of the elevator.
In a lucid dream, I was walking through intellectual states and realms, as if they were streets, squares, and buildings of a town. The narrowest streets were the most crowded ones too, with cars, motorbikes, and big buses. More crowded than the directions and the flows of traffic would have justified. I had to turn away, there were road accidents. On the town square, however, one could see pedestrians only. I could identify each street and other places by the license plates and the faces I saw, by keywords and key figures for any given stream of thought, any ideology.
At sunset, I arrived at a park. It had no signs, and no traffic at all. There was no one to be seen, and yet, it felt like an important mark of the city. I sat down on a bench, close to a fountain. Suddenly, an old person sat down, next to me. I didn’t recognise them, it was impossible to tell their gender even. "Who are you?", I asked. The old person smiled, but stayed silent. "What is this place then?", I continued my attempts.
I could feel a fresh breeze on my hands and cheeks. A moment later, I got the answer: "This is the truth." I was struck, and made sure to inspect my environment. How could I not have recognised it, I thought. I turned to face my only companion there again, but they were gone.
(Inspired by the Socratic Method.)
Is love only love when it aligns with the narrative?
What do you mean by „the narrative”?
Not social pressure. Something big. Like the truth. Like fate. Like the direction of progress. Like nature. Like beauty.
Why would love have to align with them?
Indeed, love is an emotion. It’s affection. Maybe, actually, it is the narrative (truth, fate, nature, progress, and beauty) that align with love. Love does not follow beauty alone. It may have to be an aligned constellation of all these things to be real love.
And who decides what real love is?
The person, I guess. Within the narrative.
I am truly passionate about my doctoral theme, moral economics. I believe that the insights contained in my dissertation could help masses, essentially without any harm, and moving forward, they would be crucial in human history. But I am not writing this anecdote to share those ideas (many parts already published) directly. I’m writing to prepare hopeful, enthusiastic, and benevolent people for their moments, their opportunities, and to help them recognize if they are simply not ready yet.
I have applied and been selected to participate in our university’s first ever three-minute-thesis competition, which has taken place just yesterday. I had my slide and script ready for over a week. About three days before the contest, I started memorizing the text. I repeated it many times, practicing in different setups: with sound recordings, with videos, in front of the mirror, looking at the slide, and not looking at it.
Two days before the contest, I went to the hairdresser, and was practicing my text on public transport. Holding my phone close (for the sound recording), and having my earphones plugged in, people must have thought that I’m in an important call. It’s actually not a frequent phenomenon, hearing people making English language calls on public transportation, here in Budapest. If you are decently dressed, people will even be impressed by such a thing.
One day before the contest, I delivered my speech in a rehearsal to my thesis supervisor, and it went well. I practiced in the evening, and the next morning, again on public transport, on the way to our shiny new campus, where the contest was about to take place. I bumped into a friend (and fellow contestant) at the entrance. With about thirty minutes to go, we practiced a little together, reciting our texts to each other.
Then, the competition has started. Everyone seemed nervous. I did not feel nervous. I knew from the number of my recordings that I have repeated my speech more than a hundred times. I was the third one to speak. It went fluently, until about the middle. There was something I got lost in, something that had drifted me away. Was it the distinguished academic audience? Was it my thirteen fellow doctoral contestants? Was it that I have not taken the time to relax, not even a minute before the start? I must have paused for five to eight seconds. But then I continued. I felt supported by catching the glimpses of women and men who have been mentoring and watching over me throughout my years in the doctoral program so far. And I finished, in shortly under three minutes.
Taking my seat, back next to my friend, he said that he would have never been able to come back from that point, from the pause, had that been in his performance. He seemed impressed, and I guess this is the kindest way to approach such a “blooper”. But I knew my pause has doomed my ranking in the contest. I watched the others in awe, some making other types of mistakes, some being slightly more nervous, but most of us just being absolutely brilliant.
After the presentations and a short break, results were announced. Of course I didn’t win. I congratulated some winners, and was about to congratulate more, when a kind lady, the professor initiating and facilitating the contest has walked up to me. She said that it was really good. I’m not sure she knew me before, but I thanked her. A moment thereafter, the head of our doctoral school has shown up to repeat the same kind words. I felt humbled. They remained standing there, and soon enough, the doctoral dean was standing next to them, saying that it was a really good presentation indeed. The next moment, I had to turn around to see to whom they have switched their looks. It was the rector, with his own supportive and encouraging words. He told me that there is no need to be nervous, it is clear that the knowledge is there, with me. I was grateful, and thanked him, but I felt a little puzzled, because I wasn’t sure if I had been that nervous indeed.
True, I felt struck by the volume of attention, and I wanted to absorb it, maybe have some more interactive contact with the audience, as I usually do during lectures for BA students. I was also contemplating whether I’d really like to beat the thirteen other students we’re in the same boat with. It wasn’t a gesture, not even a choice though.
In the moments of pause, I felt dazzled. As if I wasn’t ready for something. Not to win, not to succeed just yet. I have this powerful message, through the powerful knowledge… I am overwhelmed with opportunities. Would I want success to slow me down any further?
Nietzsche has this chilly quote: “Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster... for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you.” But it is not just you, or the abyss, who have a gaze, the skies can do the same. When I stood up on that stage, silently, it was like the sky had opened for a moment, to dazzle me with my own works’ potential. Those moments are rare, and maybe, they are there to signal what to share, how to let others see the same, and to prepare one for another, even greater future chance.
Budapest, March 8, 2024
I met a good friend and one of her little sons this afternoon. We walked in a park, and then through a store, where my friend was looking for a decorative booklet for herself. I talked to the 3-year-old during the booklet selection process, so that my friend could have some time for considering the options.
The little one and I were counting the ladybugs on one booklet, then butterflies on another, identifying the colours of different envelopes, and looking at other items too. I was patient and empathic, I believe. In a way it felt like passing on the love I received from my parents’ friends, before they had children. Meanwhile, my friend has asked for my opinion, comparing a green and a purple coloured booklet, and mentioned on the side how good I am at talking to children. That compliment felt really nice.
I also felt very much connected to the little one. To his entire generation. When I got home, I could identify an additional „dosis” of care in my heart. In a way it is not entirely rational. A friend’s child is an indirect acquaintance, or indirect little friend. I would have expected myself to be rather envious, for I don’t have children at this stage. But I was not. Little children are innocent, transparent, and pure in their intentions.
Their innocence can be so surprising and moving, one finds themselves feeling responsible, and worried for the future of their generation. Connecting to little children at an emotional level helps one in the sheer realization that we actually must think harder about and act on what we „leave” the generation 2 or 3 decades down the line, and further on, with.
The responsibility attached to the caring connection, and the vulnerability that comes with opening one’s heart reminds of the novella The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. When you experience this caring feeling, you realise that you are not selfish, that you are connected. And as usual, it is the most vulnerable, most „powerless” beings to teach the biggest lessons.
Budapest, April 26, 2024
Heart: "Listen to me!"
Me: "But that doesn't lead anywhere. Mind, what do you say?"
Mind: "Listen to your heart."
Me: "If I do, she might even get hurt."
Mind: "But if you don't, I will. Remember?"