Thought and Feeling

To speak of human nature, is to speak of hypocrisy. Indeed, we are unique in the animal kingdom, a species that struggles to reconcile its heart with its mind. In all other creatures, the heart and the mind are one. But in ours, they are separated. How often have we deliberated when it seems our hearts tell us to do one thing, and our minds something else? Nature itself does not impose that dichotomy; it is the society in which we choose to live that so dictates.

In civilized settings, we are faced with situations that we know to be right, and situtaions that we know to be wrong. But our worldly knowledge and the fear that society will not try us as Nature would, when we decide with our hearts, compels us to err on the side of logic. What results is often a lifetime of action attended by guilt, or some other leftover emotion. In Nature, a feeling is equalled on its other side, by an action. Thought takes no part in the process.

Behold society, in which we think long and hard, and then do what we believe is most intelligent, or most expedient, or most beneficial for the greatest number, though we feel we may be committing a wrong. We ignore what feels right, and we go along with what seems wise. Yet our wisdom is false.

The heart does not lie. It tries its cases more rigorously than does the mind.   

Let us consider a number of situations in which the mind recommends one action, while the heart recommends another. Though, often, the mind wins, consider that the heart is far better a prosecutor of the truth, because of its inability to act falsely, whereas the mind may not be honest, though it can argue a point to no end.

We are told not to lay bare our hearts before we consider what we have to lose. In Nature, there is nothing to lose by being oneself. But in society, we stand to suffer the consequences of our candor.

Imagine a police officer with too much time on his hands, who decides in the absence of more worthy misdemeanors, to pull over a driver on a deserted road. Hours of idling have served merely to intensify his will to throw round his weight. He looks for trouble in the least thing: a broken tail light, a car that speeds just a hair over the limit, a momentary swerve. Perhaps it is nothing by the letter of the law, but it nonetheless catches his attention, because he is bored. It is a car that looks suspicious because its paint is flecking. It is a windshield cracked across. No matter the reason, he asks you to step out of your vehicle. You protest that you have not been drinking, and that you are in a hurry to meet a friend in trouble. But he tells you to shut up, in those exact words. Your heart trembles with anger, and you feel your blood boil. But you must keep quiet. That badge will protect you as surely as it will throw you into the backseat of an esccort. It is unfair. But you must not let your feelings be known. In fact, what you are feeling is the sort of anger that, in Nature, brings animals to clash within an inch of their lives. As a human, you cannot express your sense of unfair punishment, so you must smile as long as it takes to return to your car and speed off. Then you scream to no one in particular, about the travesty of the law, and the way in which it empowers brutes at the expense of well-meaning people.

It is Friday night, and your week has been long. Every day, you woke at 8am, and you didn’t return home until after 7 that night. All that you want is to sleep. Indeed, you have extended yourself to the point of extreme irritability. Just one hour longer in the glass house of your office, and you feel you may tell a customer precisely what you think of his problem. But one prearrangement stands between you and your bed: the plans you made last week, with the friend you agreed to meet after a long lapse between visits. You know that your friend will have much to say about her latest date with a man she discovered online. She will want to remember the trip you took together last summer, in Mexico. She will jump at the first opportunity of renewing an inside joke. Meanwhile, you will prop yourself up on one hand, and you will ask questions and drink from your wine glass, as if you truly wanted to be there. In fact, your body is pained beyond expression, and no measure of liquor would increase the value of your friend’s stories. When she urges you to drink faster, and laughs at what a lightweight you’ve become, you will laugh too (though you would like to smash your glass and overturn the table). You impress your friend with attentiveness for three hours, and when, with this encouragement, she asks one more drink, you find it within yourself to agree. Another hour passes, and you are more than exhausted. Thinking has failed you, but in your heart, you feel panicked. How much longer must you remain? At last, you have finished with reminiscing. You return home, and you collapse into bed. In four hours, your alarm will sound off, and you will repeat the process. But what can you do? Everyone’s got to have friends.

In the forty-fifth year of your marriage, in the second month of the year, on the 14th day, which celebrates your love with paper-heart cutouts and roses and chocolate, you venture out with your partner for an engagement with romance. The chef has prepared a sumptuous meal, and the wine is loveliest of all. Here is the first course, and it is followed by the second, and the third. At last, your spoons have reached the end of a delicious creme brulee, and you look up at one another. Happy Valentine’s Day. But for three hours, you spoke of nothing, save the doughiness of the bread, the creaminess of the soup, the robust flavor of the herb-roasted potatoes. You lifted your bread plate to inspect the maker’s brand. You excused yourself and took five minutes longer than you needed, just to escape the silence at your table. When you returned, you looked around at all the younger couples, and you regretted your life. After 45 years, you have remained, though your hearts are empty of feeling. You have remained because both your names appear in the corners of your checks, because you own a timeshare in Provence, because you are famous on your block for hosting summer BBQs, because there are children, and cars, and pets. You are ready to cry, but instead you smile. As you ready to leave, in a gesture of gentility, you help your partner into her evening jacket. A year goes by, and once more, you are at the restaurant, and once more, there is unbearable silence followed by a smile and a nod.   

These all are examples that speak to our very human tendency to stash away our feelings while we refer action to thought. In essence, we are always faking it with one another. We say one thing, though we mean quite its opposite. And we do this to advance ourselves, or to spare ourselves from certain punishment. We can ignore our feelings as long as the reason is sound. But any reason may be judged sound, just as any argument may exist for things that are terrible, or wonderful, or horrible, or virtuous.

What is right, is not what we argue, but what we feel. Take a moment, now, to consult your heart. Leave out your thoughts, and your human aptitude for rationalization. Instead, take a moment to wonder what you justify because it seems to be the intelligent thing to do.

Do you find that you accept abuse from those who have no right to abuse you?

Do you find you smile when you are feeling pain?

Do you find you condone suffering when you, yourself, have not suffered? 

I say this now, because it relates to our treatment of life, and more particularly to our treatment of animals: because we can argue for something, does not mean we should.