I’m one of those people that finds the process of writing cathartic and somehow validating of thoughts. It makes sense, then, that I’ve been meaning and wanting to write about the car accident that my Dad and I were involved in, and the impact it has had on me, ever since it happened. But only now, almost 18 months on, having thought and thought to the point of brain saturation and, ironically, having just read the chapter ‘On the Sublime’ in Alain de Botton’s The Art of Travel, do I feel I’ve done enough thinking and made enough connections to put fingers to keyboard. It’s amazing how reading what someone else has written, even if not directly related to your situation, can speed up the journey to perspective and understanding so significantly. On 6th January of this year, almost a year on from the accident, I wrote in my then six-day-old blog that I would try to explain what I called the ‘Car Crash Effect (or less sinisterly the CN Tower Effect) soon’. What I’m writing now is, finally, my first attempt to put these thoughts into words.

After the accident people sympathetically and understandably made comments along the lines of “you poor thing”, “what an awful thing to happen” and “I can’t imagine having to go through that”, and have usually been more than surprised when I’ve responded with “oh it’s fine”, “the recovery period was the happiest time of my life” and even “I wish that everyone could go through a similar experience, only with less pain, trauma and inconvenience”. Whilst lying on various beds during the weeks after the accident, and afterwards hopping around on crutches and being pushed around in my wheelchair by incredible and long-suffering family and friends, I felt an unprecedented and overwhelming sense of happiness and perspective that, at the time, made no rational sense. My ankle was broken so I couldn’t walk, my thumb was broken so I couldn’t play the cello, I was missing some of my final weeks in Cambridge, I couldn’t celebrate my 21st the way we’d planned and my Dad was in a worse state than I was. Quickly I decided there was no point in telling anybody quite how elated I felt, as the confusion felt by other people would have no doubt only made me frustrated through my not being understood, and others may well have come to the conclusion that I had been mentally as well as physically damaged. My Dad was obviously the closest person to understanding, and I’m sure he always will be.

At the time I put my happiness down to the facts that my Dad and I were still alive, we’d emerged from the accident relatively and almost miraculously well-off and that I was surrounded by a network of genuinely supportive and caring people who had the very best brought out of them. I was also suddenly relieved of responsibility, since I was obviously not being expected anymore to perform the Schumann concerto (which I’d barely started learning) in a few weeks’ time or hand in a first draft of my dissertation (which I’d barely started thinking about). I had the sobering realisation that your complex chain of responsibilities is rarely broken until a major, and usually unpleasant, event occurs in your life which excuses you temporarily from functioning like everyone else. Of course all of the above was true, but I knew there was more to it, and this extra mysterious contributory factor to my happiness has become less and less abstract to the point where I feel it can be grasped, or at least blindly groped.

I knew I was feeling happy, uplifted and optimistic like never before and, despite my new disabilities, able to do more than ever before, which explains why I later felt the need to coin a new term, the ‘Car Crash Effect’. The ‘CN Tower Effect’, something I knew was somehow an equivalent, needs now to be explained. In the December following the accident I found myself driving with Andy and Abby from Rochester, NY to Toronto for auditions, and we decided we couldn’t leave the city without visiting the top of the iconic CN Tower, ‘the world’s tallest freestanding structure on land from 1975-2007′ (thanks Wikipedia). When we reached the top and looked out over Lake Ontario, the thousands of buildings, people and cars and beyond the land that we’d just spent the last three hours traversing, I suddenly sensed the feelings I’d experienced in the weeks after the accident being renewed. They had never gone away, but they were now instantly resurfacing. Why the almost identical extreme feelings on both a hospital bed and hundreds of feet above ground?

I believe that Alain de Botton, with the first clear explanation of the concept of the ‘sublime’ I’ve come across, has pointed me to an answer. The chapter explains that, over the years, writers have agreed on the idea that certain places of great ‘size, emptiness or danger’ provoke ‘an unidentifiable feeling’ (that of the sublime) that is ‘both pleasurable and morally good’. He goes on to describe the sublime as ‘an encounter, pleasurable, intoxicating even, with human weakness in the face of the strength, age and size of the universe’. He then discusses Edmund Burke’s theory that sublime landscapes are those that are ‘vast, empty, often dark and apparently infinite, because of the uniformity and succession of their elements’, and suggest ‘power greater than that of humans and threatening to them’. I’m sure it’s no coincidence that in my blog post of 25th March I wrote, having just seen a photo of Golden Gate Bridge taken from up high: ‘Healthy mental perspective can begin with beautiful, broad physical perspective. The world would be a happier place if we all lived on top of a green grassy hill’. Traditionally sublime places are entirely natural, but I know that in many ways my view from the top of the CN Tower could be described not just as beautiful but as sublime, however pretentious and contrived this may sound. In any case, writers on the subject in the eighteenth century, if transported to today’s increasingly built-up world, would surely agree that a largely manmade landscape could prompt an experience of the sublime. Like an ocean, desert or mountain, the Toronto skyline gave a very real impression of power far greater than the sum of its parts.

So, Alain de Botton summarises that ‘sublime landscapes, through their grandeur and power, retain a symbolic role in bringing us to accept without bitterness or lamentation the obstacles we cannot overcome and events we cannot make sense of’. Before reading this conclusion I had already started thinking: perhaps I am starting to re-evaluate my accident as a sublime experience. After all, the sublime is not limited to places, but it’s often referred to in, for example, more abstract realms such as music. Here is the final paragraph of the chapter which I think sums things up beautifully and which made me elated once more and probably a bizarre sight to behold when I read it on the train yesterday:

If the world is unfair or beyond our understanding, sublime places suggest it is not surprising things should be thus. We are the playthings of the forces that laid out the oceans and chiselled the mountains. Sublime places gently move us to acknowledge limitations that we might otherwise encounter with anxiety or anger in the ordinary flow of events. It is not just nature that defies us. Human life is as overwhelming, but it is the vast spaces of nature that perhaps provide us with the finest, the most respectful reminder of all that exceeds us. If we spend time in them, they may help us to accept more graciously the great unfathomable events that molest our lives and will inevitably return us to dust.

I find it difficult to believe that anyone could disagree with this closing statement, whether religious or not. The accident was an event which, by definition, was beyond our control and certainly not driven (so to speak) by malicious intent, or indeed by any intent at all. It makes perfect sense, then, that the feelings provoked in me both after the accident and over Toronto resulted from a then-subconscious acknowledgment that I was limited by powers that were not suffocating and sinister but awe-inspiring, humbling and worthy of respect. Although we should never stop being determined to stretch ourselves, there is something both reassuring and empowering in coming to terms and being happy with our place in the world. By giving over some control of our lives to greater natural (or partially manmade) forces, whatever they may be, the weight of total responsibility and accountability is finally relieved. We can then happily begin to realise that all we can do is make the best of any situation to the best of our constantly evolving ‘imperfect’ human abilities.

Even if this makes no sense to anybody else, and although I tied myself in knots trying to make it coherent, I’m glad it’s been let out. In the interests of safety, perhaps each government of the world should sponsor trips to the top of their country’s highest building rather than skimping on salt on icy roads this winter.

Click here for a School of Life secular Sunday Sermon by Charles Leadbeater: ‘On Perspective’

Is there an ideal balance between thinking about life and living it? Is there such a thing as a healthy thought threshold? In other words, is there a point in the day after which a philosopher should stop thinking and start doing? If you don’t think enough you begin to live life on autopilot, your actions misguided or without meaning. If you think too much you risk turning into a master navel gazer, without the time or inclination to put thoughts into action and ultimately rendering your ponderings near-pointless.

That’s enough from me today. I see my navel on the horizon.

Watching the historical but slightly surreal and almost farcical 2010 Queen’s speech debate on BBC News just now, I started thinking this: When it comes to debate and decision-making, isn’t the word ‘objectivity’ rendered redundant? If we were all able to gain true objectivity, wouldn’t debate be heading for extinction?

Within this realm, objectivity is synonymous with perfection and, as I’ve rabbited on about before, it is not only impossible for perfection to exist but the very concept can be dangerous. When making a decision for the greater good, we of course strive for and like to think we’re being objective, but surely all we can ever do is zoom out as far as possible on the big picture (or, in rabbit terms, climb up the hairs to the highest altitude possible). There’s only so far we can go and there are always going to be blind spots. We can’t accumulate multiple perspectives (unless of course we have multiple personality disorder); we can only broaden our own. As much as we like to think we’re divorcing ourselves from our own feelings, thoughts, motives etc. we’ll never be fully empathetic with those around us, simply because we are not them.

I’ve just realised this post must have been subconsciously influenced by something I read in the Times today: that one of the worst lies that men tell themselves is, ‘I am always objective’. The very fact that I am right now arguing with a man about the above backs up this article and this post very nicely. But this man has inspired me to raise the idea that an omniscient ‘God’, in whatever form he/she/it may or may not exist, is objectivity itself, and we humans are all on a spectrum of subjectivity, some of us far closer to the ‘ideal’ of objectivity than others.

So all this talk about working in the ‘national interest’ is admirable and, of course, entirely necessary, but we can’t expect miracles to grow from this intention, even if it is wholly genuine. What I would idealistically like to see, though, is a widespread recognition that objectivity is an unachievable ideal. With such recognition we wouldn’t get these politicians, and people in general, making brash decisions simply because they believe wholeheartedly that everyone else would agree, if only everyone else was objective themselves. Without wishing to disturb Socrates in his grave: Most objective is he who knows he cannot be objective. I agreed with Nick and I still do, but ultimately if he and his partner in (hopefully reducing) crime Mr Cameron are going to make changes that work 100% for me they’ll have to take up the cello, start wearing earrings and develop a taste for inconclusive blogging.

I just changed my new phone’s wallpaper to a picture of a sunset over Golden Gate Bridge, taken from somewhere up high and looking a long way into the distance (and a little less ominous than the one shown here). I instantly felt more relaxed, positive and the happy realisition of the relative insignificance of so many things, and then I thought all over again what I thought when I was at the top of the CN Tower (see Jan 6 post, ‘Your Country Needs YOU (in Snow and in Health)‘, containing empty promise that I would explain the ‘CN Tower Effect’). To slightly expand on my Feb 2 ponderings, ‘A New Month, a New Hero‘, (and Alain de Botton’s well-developed insights):

Healthy mental perspective can begin with beautiful, broad physical perspective. The world would be a happier place if we all lived on top of a green grassy hill. In theory.

Since returning to facebook after my one-month sabbatical I’ve felt almost no inspiration to let loose on the Rabbit. This does not bode well for both me or, by contrived extension, the future of the world! I would elaborate but I’m being compelled to stare inanely at the holiday snaps of my friend’s friend’s cousin’s dog who I’ve never met.

One thing I can think of which is vaguely related… My dad, whilst having a blood transfusion over 3000 miles away, said on the phone to me yesterday, “it’s no good being well if you’re dead” and “well, it’s your life”. How many people genuinely live their average day based on the knowledge (or at least idealistic belief) that they themselves are fully in control of their very limited time on this earth? Very few. We could begin by blaming facebook for robbing us of our real (as opposed to virtual) life time. Perhaps something resembling a conclusion when I’ve logged out of the ‘book and into my fully functioning brain.

45 days ago was the birth of a new decade and, through no coincidence, it was also the birth of this blog. Three days ago marked 22 years since my own birth and, also through no coincidence, I’ve just given birth to a(nother) plan for life-detoxification. No more 4am bedtimes and cappuccino lunches. Like I said on Jan 2 (‘Ockham’s Razor: Shaver of Choice for 2010?‘) though, I shouldn’t focus on hundreds of specific goals or I’ll only build myself up for failure, guilt and a 14-year-old-style rebellion against myself, so all these individual aspirations are being directed underneath the oversized ‘be healthy and in control’ umbrella in the interests of staying dry and misery-free. To repeat what I said on Jan 26 (‘The Problems of an Ideal Rabbit‘), we can’t have ‘life’ getting in the way of life.

All these significant dates and new beginnings led me to think… If humans had never created such a thing as a Monday, birthday or January 1st, where would we be? On an eternal downward spiral? Dead? Thank god (or rather thank long-decomposed mortals) for an imposed, universally familiar and reassuringly repetitive temporal structure which allows us the opportunities to hit our own ‘stop’ and ‘refresh’ buttons. [Relevant quotation from belated birthday lunch today: 'Even genius needs structure'.] Obviously nothing external significantly and suddenly changes when we reach a new week/month/year, but I form a mental image of standing on top of a new mountain (or something more abstract but equally uplifting… or perhaps a rabbit?) with renewed energy and optimism, and this is why I often think ‘TGIM’ as often, if not more frequently, than ‘TGIF‘; I’d rather celebrate the start of something than the beginning of its end.

Perhaps my best friend and I were onto more than we thought when, at the age of nine, we began to celebrate Franmas, a second Christmas-inspired holiday in June…! Not only do we now, 13 years down the line, have one extra event to get excited about every year, but we have another opportunity to try to achieve that mysterious thing called perspective. If only we could treat every new day with the same vigour as we do every big turning-point occasion and, to take it one step further, if only we could truly ‘carpe diem‘. Happy Franmas one and all (we’re exactly 4 months away!… oh, and happy Valentine’s Day) and, more appropriately for now and indeed forever, happy new moment.

To continue from my hang-up about originality from Jan 19 (‘You Say Nature and I Say Nurture‘):

Most people, including Albert in Sophie’s World, agree that, once upon a time, in fact once before time, something had to come ‘ex nihilo‘. But, now that the world exists, can pure originality, in thought and action, really exist? Or is there just a cycle of three ‘I’s, imitation, inspiration and (re)interpretation?

Don’t think too hard about this one – someone else will have got there first.

A music-specific continuation from Jan 26 (‘The Problems of an Ideal Rabbit‘):

For me and many others, one of the main and eternal aspirations of a musician is to break down the physical and mental barriers to genuine expression. Last night, listening to my friends perform as I’m often lucky enough to do, I had a thought as to what one of these mental barriers might be.

When we play music, we have in our head a concept of the performance we want to create. To put this roughly in terms of Platonic idealism, we have a concept of the ‘ideal’ form of a piece which we then strive to reproduce in our material world of change. But too often I think live performance remains only a faint shadow of our ideal interpretation, because the latter plays in our mind in sync with and more loudly than the sounds we actually produce. And this is why listening back to our own recordings can be so illuminating and so disappointing; suddenly we’re stripped of the comfort blanket that is the illusion that we’re doing justice to our sound concept, and we’re left naked with only the inferior product of this concept in the externally audible world.

So, aims for the next time I pick up my cello: 1. Turn down the volume or even hit pause on the ‘ideal’ performance in my head in order to truly listen to the living sound. 2. Be reassured that, in music, there are infinite versions of the ideal (so a work of music, as a concept abstract in the material world, can’t strictly exist in Plato’s world of ideas anyway). 3. Play loudly enough to be heard in Indonesia; surely one culture will find my tuning ‘system’ ideal.

I often think that if I had better knowledge of psychology, sociology, history etc. I’d have been better qualified to address the issues I’ve raised in the Rabbit so far. But yesterday, after writing my post, I reassured myself with the following thought which, even if untrue, makes me feel justified in continuing my blogging activities…

The word ‘ignorance’ has such negative connotations, but remaining ignorant to existing literature, theories, experiments etc. can, in one sense, give us the edge over those ‘in the know’. Absorbing someone else’s theory can, for example, build a brick wall around our own thought capacity as the theory infiltrates our own ideas (whether we like it or not), just like listening to recordings can subconsciously influence the way in which a performer shapes a musical phrase and place limits on the development of their individual interpretation. By avoiding the brainwashing of others and the belief that we’ve arrived at answers, we can also retain that healthy sense of awe that Jostein Gaarder holds up as the key to being a good philosopher. It’s no wonder that children are so creative. [I also realise that educating ourselves can also provide us with tools needed for further independent enquiry, but that goes against today's point...]

What I’m trying to say is this… Another person’s thought could very well act as as a useful foothold (it is, after all, someone else’s book which sparked the idea for this blog), but it could just as easily stand as an obstacle on your own personal rabbity journey. Behind every big personal library there isn’t necessarily a genius/someone you’d take out for coffee.

This just popped up on twitter from Plato via philoquotes: “Ignorance, the root and stem of all evil”. I’ll hazard a guess and say he probably wouldn’t agree with this post then.