Discombobulation is fast becoming one of my favourite words; not least after someone who should have known better, asked a little sardonically "Discombobulation isn't a real word, is it?" and Littlest erupted in defence of one of her favourite words. She likes to utter it in full Blackadder fashion, with heavy emphasis on the central bob. And, before any doubters ask, she knows exactly what it means.
Sadly, I think I may, soon, have to stop referring to her as Littlest. Unless, unless, ... unless I do continue, simply because she occupies that position in this family, but with the caveat that in age, if not stature, she is not particularly little any more and indeed, understands more than her affectionate moniker might suggest. There then lies the end of an era, perhaps, if childhood can be an era and is not too short to be era-worthy. I suspect (correctly as it turns out) she may appreciate the irony of being called Littlest. So until she asks me not to, she will for now remain Littlest in this blog. She is however, increasingly, a knowing and wise Littlest ... she's liking this procrasti-ramble ... and like Peter Pan she wants to remain Littlest. But she also likes the wise and knowing part. I however, find these two features, blossoming in my youngest child, a little discombobulating - where did the years go; at what point did she grow up and I trip over into middle age; when did I start looking at the short skirts in my wardrobe and find myself thinking 'Nah'; where did the pain in my back come from; and why about once every couple of months do I discover an eye-brow hair that's several centimetres long?
Discombobulation however, isn't all funny, or peculiar, or a little sad. No, no, no ... it is sometimes downright maddening. Rant warning ahead ...!
Newspapers disseminate news. Don't they? But what is news?
It is becoming increasingly apparent to me that the news I read is not always the news I want to read. Nor is it the news I want to trust. Or should trust. Instead, it is someone else's version of the news. Which may in fact not be proper news at all. What we too often get, dressed up as news, is a veiled form of propaganda. This is DISCOMBOBULATING in the extreme. What do we or should we believe? I have no idea anymore. And it is turning me into a sceptic. I have grown up questioning everything - faith, medicine, science? I work (when I have to) in medicine, so I know to question evidence, to look at research and to be suspect of anything that offers itself as 100% certain. Voltaire and Neitzche were both good on this ...
"Doubt is an uncomfortable condition but certainty is a ridiculous one."
"If you strive for peace of soul and pleasure, then believe; if you want to be a devotee of truth, then inquire."
I want peace of soul and pleasure without being made to feel ridiculous. Inquiring after the truth though is hard. And it is becoming harder.
I feel we live in a time where little that we once thought concrete is not in danger of crumbling into dust. I am learning to trust nothing. News! What news? Do you know which version of the truth to believe? I usually know which I want to believe, but I don't know that I can fully trust that belief and as Voltaire said, doubt is uncomfortable. I'd go further and say it is corrosive. It discombobulates utterly.
Take a look at what you know to be true - about Brexit, America, Trump, climate change, religion, politics, science. Then ask yourself how you know those beliefs are true. Where did you get your information from? Are the sources for your facts genuinely good, or are they bad and very clever manipulators of the truth? Our convictions are every day hammered by the fake news that we read and by fear. So called truths that manipulate us are wrong. They makes us all fools. Beliefs that make us better people collectively, are difficult to find. I fear that hunting for them is only going to get harder.
For now, I will breathe and embrace the discomfort of doubt and keep looking for the truth.
Another thing that discombobulates me, mightily - throwing me into a wobbly world alien to this procrastinating pedant - is grammar. I know mine is far from perfect ... I frequently split infinitives and use '...' far too often (or is it too frequently?). But the hiccup when reading a their where it should be there or a too when it should be to or a like when no like is like needed, is dwarfed by the tsunami when I stumble across should of or could of or must of. Yes, it sounds like that when spoken - try it ... should've or could've or must've - but the contraction is from have. The wrong writing of of makes no sense. At all. Grr!
Rant over.
Time for some calm: gardening with helpers
handsome helpers
and un-helpers who have a knack of standing or sitting exactly where I wish to weed or prune
Sadly, I think I may, soon, have to stop referring to her as Littlest. Unless, unless, ... unless I do continue, simply because she occupies that position in this family, but with the caveat that in age, if not stature, she is not particularly little any more and indeed, understands more than her affectionate moniker might suggest. There then lies the end of an era, perhaps, if childhood can be an era and is not too short to be era-worthy. I suspect (correctly as it turns out) she may appreciate the irony of being called Littlest. So until she asks me not to, she will for now remain Littlest in this blog. She is however, increasingly, a knowing and wise Littlest ... she's liking this procrasti-ramble ... and like Peter Pan she wants to remain Littlest. But she also likes the wise and knowing part. I however, find these two features, blossoming in my youngest child, a little discombobulating - where did the years go; at what point did she grow up and I trip over into middle age; when did I start looking at the short skirts in my wardrobe and find myself thinking 'Nah'; where did the pain in my back come from; and why about once every couple of months do I discover an eye-brow hair that's several centimetres long?
Discombobulation however, isn't all funny, or peculiar, or a little sad. No, no, no ... it is sometimes downright maddening. Rant warning ahead ...!
Newspapers disseminate news. Don't they? But what is news?
It is becoming increasingly apparent to me that the news I read is not always the news I want to read. Nor is it the news I want to trust. Or should trust. Instead, it is someone else's version of the news. Which may in fact not be proper news at all. What we too often get, dressed up as news, is a veiled form of propaganda. This is DISCOMBOBULATING in the extreme. What do we or should we believe? I have no idea anymore. And it is turning me into a sceptic. I have grown up questioning everything - faith, medicine, science? I work (when I have to) in medicine, so I know to question evidence, to look at research and to be suspect of anything that offers itself as 100% certain. Voltaire and Neitzche were both good on this ...
"Doubt is an uncomfortable condition but certainty is a ridiculous one."
"If you strive for peace of soul and pleasure, then believe; if you want to be a devotee of truth, then inquire."
I want peace of soul and pleasure without being made to feel ridiculous. Inquiring after the truth though is hard. And it is becoming harder.
I feel we live in a time where little that we once thought concrete is not in danger of crumbling into dust. I am learning to trust nothing. News! What news? Do you know which version of the truth to believe? I usually know which I want to believe, but I don't know that I can fully trust that belief and as Voltaire said, doubt is uncomfortable. I'd go further and say it is corrosive. It discombobulates utterly.
Take a look at what you know to be true - about Brexit, America, Trump, climate change, religion, politics, science. Then ask yourself how you know those beliefs are true. Where did you get your information from? Are the sources for your facts genuinely good, or are they bad and very clever manipulators of the truth? Our convictions are every day hammered by the fake news that we read and by fear. So called truths that manipulate us are wrong. They makes us all fools. Beliefs that make us better people collectively, are difficult to find. I fear that hunting for them is only going to get harder.
For now, I will breathe and embrace the discomfort of doubt and keep looking for the truth.
Another thing that discombobulates me, mightily - throwing me into a wobbly world alien to this procrastinating pedant - is grammar. I know mine is far from perfect ... I frequently split infinitives and use '...' far too often (or is it too frequently?). But the hiccup when reading a their where it should be there or a too when it should be to or a like when no like is like needed, is dwarfed by the tsunami when I stumble across should of or could of or must of. Yes, it sounds like that when spoken - try it ... should've or could've or must've - but the contraction is from have. The wrong writing of of makes no sense. At all. Grr!
Rant over.
Time for some calm: gardening with helpers
handsome helpers
and un-helpers who have a knack of standing or sitting exactly where I wish to weed or prune
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