Virtue

All my life I’ve valued qualities like competence, poise, courage, and autonomy. The values that I developed had almost nothing to do with what anyone else thought or taught. Because I grew up undiagnosed on the autism spectrum, I had few friends, and a truncated relationship with those I did have. I played alone; I read alone; and I explored and learned alone. I don’t remember my elementary school teacher’s names, or the names of any of my classmates. The same goes for junior high school. I went to an alternative high school, and I do remember many of my teacher’s names, but only one fellow student’s name.

When I was young, I read, and read, and read; not just fiction and science fiction, but classic works on Stoicism, Taoism and Zen. I read The Golden Bough and Silent Spring. I read the encyclopedia, the dictionary, and the yellow pages. I am still an insatiable reader. Now that the internet is available, I poke around on there in the same way that I would browse the yellow pages and look up things I wanted to know in the encyclopedia.

What’s my point? Well, it’s that I don’t really understand people who don’t self-initiate. I no longer expect to find that other people are observing, forming suppositions, and experimenting to test those suppositions, but even though I’ve learned that most people don’t do these things, I’m still puzzled as to why they don’t— and I’m forced to admit that their motivations are a mystery to me. What could possibly be their guiding principle? Do they even think in terms of guiding principles?

It’s been evident to me for a very long time that my brain operates on a different set of parameters than most people’s brains. I tried making explanations and giving descriptions in the hope that people would understand, but I found through bitter experience that most of the time they did not. Not only did they not understand, they ridiculed. They condescended. They avoided and pointed fingers. They played tricks, and howled with laughter.

I learned from all this. The things I learned, though, were not what you might expect. I learned to go apart. I learned that looking closely leads to the discovery of stunning beauty in the minute details. I learned that I was capable of enjoying solitude. I observed that unkindness rotted people’s hearts and drained the joy out of their lives. I learned that cruelty rebounds on the cruel in ways that I could see clearly, but they could not. I learned that kindness is often a sham; a performance in which people become their own audience, and so I learned to tell true compassion from false sympathy. I learned to tell whether or not I was being treated with respect, and I learned something else— something very strange— that people often don’t want to be respected, and the same people who don’t want to be respected are the ones who don’t know how to respect other people. They are the ones who are offended by the conduct that respect demands. They don’t want to be left alone to make their own choices. Sometimes they don’t even want to admit that there are choices. They don’t want to hear the unvarnished truth. They spurn any suggestion that what they wish for isn’t possible. They collapse into tears whenever something frightens them, or else they get hostile and defensive— even when the thing that scares them is most certainly not me!

The things I didn’t learn (and I know now how lucky I was) were resentment and shame; blame and recrimination; hostility and aggression. I never believed that I was helpless, or that anyone else’s judgment took precedence over my own.



One of my favorite movie quotes of all time is this:

“I would rather make the gravest of mistakes than surrender my own judgment.”

(Cora Munro, in The Last of the Mohicans)

I’ve been amazed over the last few years at how weird it is— the way human beings tackle solving their problems by methods such as medication, or “positive self-talk” or the belief that changing their ideas or beliefs will somehow change reality itself. That last one is the most odd, to my way of thinking.

As far as I can tell, no psychologists are recommending that anxiety be managed by learning to develop courage. No doctor is prescribing honest grief as a way to deal with depression. No rehab center programs involve sweat and hard physical labor as remedies for the toxins of addiction. No social-justice activists seem to value the practice of rigorously examining their own concepts of justice and equity relative to history, psychology, and the social contract.

No-one seems to be noticing the connection between discontent and road-rage; between accountability and patience; between integrity and kindness; between skill and delight.

All these things invoke each other; they orbit one another; they belong together; they interconnect.



This is why I feel the urge to preach about the virtues of observation; of awareness; of composure.

This is the reason I want to teach about the importance of the space between one breath and another.

This is why I feel I need to propose that every person cultivate the virtues of honesty and acuity.

This is why I have confidence that every single person can benefit from engaging in a dedicated practice. It doesn’t really matter what sort of practice. It only needs to be a practice that exercises such faculties as reason, poise, humor, patience, fortitude, and perseverance. It only needs to be an endeavor that encourages qualities such as courage, compassion, rigor, delight, courtesy, and equanimity.

It’s so simple; but at the same time it’s indescribably profound. I believe this is what the Tao te Ching is talking about in verses like this one:



Once upon a time

people who knew the Way

were subtle, spiritual, mysterious, penetrating,

unfathomable.



Since they’re inexplicable

I can only say what they seemed like:

Cautious, oh yes, as if wading through a winter river.

Alert, as if afraid of the neighbors.

Polite and quiet, like houseguests.

Elusive, like melting ice.

Blank, like uncut wood.

Empty, like valleys.

Mysterious, oh yes, they were like troubled water.



Who can by stillness, little by little

make what is troubled grow clear?

Who can by movement, little by little

make what is still grow quick?



To follow the Way

is not to need fulfillment.

Unfulfilled, one may live on

needing no renewal.