Tag: Life

Influences on Well-Being

How life has changed. In the time of black and white TV I remember watching Jack Hargreaves[1] wibbling on about a lost countryside. A romantic world of idyllic landscapes. Rolling English hills and green hedges. His series “Out of Town” played for a generation. To his credit he did focus on people and the way they lived their lives as much as the scenic backdrops.

He’s cheerily derogatory about the urban environment. Although he does take on the sentimentality that people have towards the countryside. In ways he’s a latter-day green campaigner. With a past century traditional style. 

This memory is sparked by me thinking about colds and flu. Winters accompaniments. Changeable January weather torments us in one way and in another gives us a tempting glimmer of the spring to come. It really is wet wet wet.

Ground water has risen to form shallow pools in the swamy field out back. This is much to the liking of the geese and a lone heron. The river Lambourn hasn’t yet bust its banks but that can’t be far off. Cloudy today with more rain on the way.

I’m fortunate in being in relatively good health. I’ve had my bout of winter blues. Now, I’m noticing the slightly shorter shadows when the sun shines. Everything is sodden. Hints of the season changing are out there. It’s the blubs that are trusting upwards from the soggy soil.

What do I attribute my good health to? I wouldn’t put it down to heathy living although the maximum of all things in moderation does appeal. In part, maybe it’s because I grew up in the world that Jack Hargraves documented. On a west country farm were muck and mud were plentiful at this time of year. Deep soggy and unavoidable.

I don’t know if youthful the exposure to muck and mud has a lifetime benefit. It certainly seems to be one theory that is put around. The idea that a person’s immune system learns about all the nasties that are encountered. It then adapts and knows how to fight off the worst of them.

My, and my brothers, inoculation consisted of a wheelbarrow, a pitchfork and a mountain of manure. Shifting this delightful stuff from farm sheds was mostly a manual task in the 1960s. Now, it’s a case of jumping on a Bobcat[2] or JCB and driving up and down until the job is done.

Solid stone-built farm buildings, like our cart shed were never intended for the use that my parents put them to. Keeping cattle indoors during the winter months. Layers of straw and muck accumulated their bedding grew in hight. By the time it was dry enough to let the cattle out into the surrounding fields their bedding was almost as deep as I was tall.

That’s how we earned our pocket money. A wheelbarrow, pitchforks and hundreds of trips backwards and forwards shifting muck. Creating a big pile in the farmyard. Then that got loaded into a muck spreader. The most organic fertiliser that can be spread on the land.

This memory is sparked. Looking at a cliff like face of compressed muck that went back for what seemed like miles. Digging away at it endlessly. Wheelbarrow load after load. A Sisyphean task, where only dogged persistence would pay off. No wonder I was a healthy young man.

[1] https://youtu.be/4e_jfU9eTSI

[2] https://www.bobcat.com/na/en

Dreams

Dreams are weird. For a start I often wake-up knowing that I’ve had a dream only to ponder on what it was about. It’s as if an erase function was pressed the moment the sunlight starts to beam through the curtains. As if my mobile’s alarm triggers a mental dustbin to empty.

Now, if I do wake-up from a dream in the night, I try to remember to scribble a note. Naturally, that’s merely a case of putting down a couple of words, not a full-page story. Interestingly that note can be surprisingly useful in restoring a glimpse of what I was dreaming.

I’m not going to get into the interpretation of dreams[1]. I don’t think they are a kind of prophecy. Literature is full of that notion. To me it must be that complex jumble of stimulus that has accumulated slowly being sorted, either filed or discarded. That’s not an analogy with a conventional computer. I think we have a powerful desire to take masses of information and make sense of it. That means wrapping a story around a lot of disparate stuff.

Dreams are weird. That’s because they have parts that make everyday sense and parts that live purely in the imagination. Boundaries and simple cause and effect don’t have to conform to waking reality. Imaginary worlds can be way of the charts.

Here’s goes. Fragments of what I remember go like so. It’s a clean room, like in a large semiconductor manufacture. White coats and white walls. Workbenches and sophisticated equipment laboratory style. Serious looking people.

Groups in different rooms. Could be in entirely different places. All working on making some kind of super chip [Have I been reading too many articles on quantum computing and alike?]. Could be a scene from a classic 007 movie where the villain invited their competitors to their secret hidden laboratory.

The last image was curious. A group of scientific people standing around staring intensely at a device (chip) sitting on a bench knowing that its performance has beaten all the opposition. Left the competition in the dust. Lots of questions being asked. This was not a hostile or nightmarish dream. This solid grey device looked like the base of a ceramic butter dish.

Even stranger the heatsink that rose up from the structure was shaped as a miniature model of the Roman forum[2] in Rome. It was as if the designers were so cocky they wanted to play a joke on their competitors. Me being one of them.

I don’t think there’s much mileage in sensemaking of this morning recollection. A dream about an imaginary future happening isn’t a kind of prediction. Perhaps it’s a chunking together fiction, facts and fantasy. However, it’s possible that some kind of breakthrough technology is sitting on a cleanroom bench somewhere. Where are the modern-day oracles when we need them.

[1] https://www.freud.org.uk/schools/resources/the-interpretation-of-dreams/

[2] https://www.rome.net/roman-forum

Legacy of Dilbert’s Humour

Cartoonists capture reality. Or at least, a snapshot of an ephemeral or enduring moment. It’s not photography. A cartoon’s realism isn’t about fidelity in the capture of a scene. It’s more focused on our perception of reality. No need for representative images full of depth and detail.

Absurdities and peculiarities captured by ink and pen can be sharp and masteries of observation. The flash of “who said what to whom” is a moment that displays the strange assortment and madness of everyday life.

To me the creator of Dilbert nailed a decade. That’s the 1990s. A time when management styles favoured open plan offices littered with cubicles. A time when of the evolution of computer networks connected office workers in a new and unfamiliar way. “You’ve got mail” was a positive thing.

Scott Adams[1] has passed at a relatively young age. His reputation not entirely intact. Now, I must decide what to do with the books I have of his. Charity shop or not? Element of his humour don’t fit the world of the 2020s. In some ways an even more absurd world than past decades.

Where he hit the mark, in my mind, centres around 1995, or so, a time when I was travelling to America. Visting giant aerospace manufacturing companies. I can close my eyes and see a hangar like building of enormous proportions where every square inch was covered by naturally coloured cubicles. Neutral coloured partitions coming up to shoulder hight. Water coolers. Glass windowed offices. Notice boards with the latest dictate.

Of course, Dilbert was an engineer. An engineer shoehorned into a modern management world that challenged his sensibilities. A hierarchical place where systematic pseudo-science clashes with logic and rationality. Where human frailties and social pressures are turned into office management speak to justify unjustifiable actions. Pushing a rock uphill to meet unrealistic project plans.

It’s a tiny thing. Dilbert’s upturned tie smacks my experience of standing at a drawing board in the late 1970s. He’s a cartoon character that is inevitably dragging his heals as he’s being forced to come to terms with a maddening corporate culture. That’s an encounter that a lot of people can relate too. It compelled office workers to play games that seemed to work in the opposite direction to any that was intended. Later, TV comedy picked up on this with series like: The Office[2].

This work day phenomenon hasn’t passed. Modern managements’ more barmy methods and theories are so ingrained that it seems wrong to highlight. Somehow our reaction to this has changed.

For a while Dilbert’s humour put up a mirror to those of us in senior management roles. Here’s a model that, if you start behaving like the “classic” boss, it’s time to do a double take. When encountering that slippery slope, look far and wide for a cynical talking dog.

[1] https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/c5y320k72vyo

[2] https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00jd68z

Swearing in English Culture

I do suppose that it’s my country upbringing, but that’s not entirely so. There was a set of opposing tensions that spread through society in the 1960s as much as they did in the 1660s.

On the one side there’s the authenticity of the country born and bread son or daughter of the soil in honest toil. That image of the rural artisan, painted by a famous artist, struggling with the elements to put bread on the table wasn’t as clean and tidy as the artist depicted.

On the other hand, was a spirit of bettering oneself. Elevation from the base worker day reality, up to one’s knees in muck, and practicalities of country life. Middle class, educated entrepreneurial, energies directed at improvement and modernisation.

An indicator of the side of the line that was most natural for a person was the use of langauage. Another might be the seriousness with which a Sunday church sermon was listened to. Another could be the frequency of evenings spent propping up the bar in the village pub.

Here my focus is on language. I’m of a generation who was told off for swearing. Whether at home, school or most social situations. This idea of self-improvement and good manners was handed down. It didn’t just spring from our parents’ ambitions. There was pressure to behave.

To suggest that colourful swearing didn’t happen was far from the truth. Even the highest minded tended to shift their disposition depended on the situation. Afterall, if I have had a calf stood on my toe or lost a wellington boot in deep cold mud it’s unlikely that my exclamation would have been – oh dear! that was jolly inconvenient.

Swear words are a constant. What continues to change is the meaning and level of offense that each one has attached. Casual obscenities that were thrown about like confetti may now be totally out of bounds. Calling someone a “bastard” in past times might almost have been considered a term of endearment.

Campaigners rail against suppressing free speech. Regulating what can be said. Rightly so, in most cases. That said, it’s rare that common place langauage is what such campaigners wish to protect. Even the traditional mundane ones are converted into softer tones to avoid offence.

If I think back to my childhood and market days in towns like Sturminster Newton in Dorset, then a great deal of English culture has been lost. Some may say thank God for progress. For me, the rural landscape isn’t as colourful or characterful as it once was, but what do I know?

Don’t read me wrong. I’m not calling for expletives and offensive words to spill out of every page or be heard up and down the high street. Social media is full of grossly offensive nastiness.

That’s part of my point. Authentic swearing doesn’t have to be used as a weapon. Yes, swearing in the 17th century was often used that way. Today, it’s better used as emphasis, exaggeration or an expression of despair. Like a valve on the lid of a pressure cooker, the occasional use of a rude word is a manner of relief. I’m sure Shakespeare would approve. Even he was censored.

As an expression of despair, we do need everyday tools to hand. If that’s the lively use of traditional langauage then so be it. For those who are offended please look at the bigger picture.

Lessons from Nature

I once said to Kwasi Kwarteng[1] that peak Boris Johnson passed during the early part of his terms as London mayor. Naturally, predicably he didn’t agree with me. This was in the Parliamentary constituency of Runnymede and Weybridge in 2017. I was the Liberal Democrat candidate standing against former Conservative Minister Philip Hammond. The public event we were attending was in Egham in Surrey.

Wow. A hell lot of water has passed under the bridge since that time. It’s like looking back at medieval history and trying to find a thread that links with the here and now. Governments have been and gone, careers have flourished and collapsed, Trump has been and gone and then returned and as was predicted Brexit has turned out to be a disaster.

Here’s a thought. It has always astonished me that we have a common fallacy. If a shelf regarding person who makes a lot of noise was once, even for a fleeting time, good at one job, they will be good at a loosely similar job. What a load of nonsense. So, it has turned out to be.

I’ve been watching the BBC’s series Kingdom[2]. About the animal kingdom. I know that the filming of such a spectacular series takes an enormous amount of dedication and effort. We get the pleasure of watching a well edited set of stories about leopards, hyena, wild dogs, and lions.

It’s tough out there to survive the seasons in the imposing Zambian landscape. We get to see the shifting of power between animal families and from generation to generation. It’s raw nature doing what it does and what it has been doing since the dawn of time. In what appears a paradise, nature is cruel. Rivals quickly exploit weakness. It’s going a bit far to draw a direct link between the rivals in the wild and the rivals in our parliamentary democracy. That said, there are lessons nature can teach us.

One is that top dogs don’t stay top dogs forever. They get their moment in the sun and then it passes. The fight to make a claim on a territory is perpetual. Yes, the cycles of the season have their impact and luck, good or bad, plays its part.

Two, is that a bad move remains a bad move. Ignoring crocodiles is never a good move. Wandering about without the protection of the pack is a high-risk strategy. Backing off, and fighting another day, is the best way to deal with a bigger, meaner, and hungrier opponent.

Where am I going with talk of these two different worlds? Human nature and animal nature.

It’s my reaction to seeing the scribblings of a former Prime Minister wibbling on about how dangerous it would be to reverse Brexit. Boris Johnson, that man whose star faded a long time ago, is writing for tabloid newspapers. He’s writing exactly what anyone would expect to see from those who will not learn from experience.

A bad move remains a bad move. Now, nearly ten years on, a bad decision remains a bad decision. Write what you like, it’s impossible to transform a failed project into a kind of utopia. What’s worse is to try and scare people by writing that we must tolerate failure because we once adopted a failed project is ludicrous. It’s irresponsible. It’s mad.

[1] UK Chancellor of the Exchequer from September to October 2022 under PM Liz Truss.

[2] https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m002hdgh

Events, my dear boy

It’s strange that with all the bumps, bruises and grazes that I’ve had so far, that I’ve never broken a bone. I’ve fallen off motorcycles, had bales of hay dropped on my head, almost drowned in rivers, damaged cars and had a couple of workshop accidents. I guess I am extremely fortunate, let’s say lucky, when I think on a couple of past accidents.

Of all the events that I can recount only a couple have left their mark. That indelible mark that’s a sign of life’s travels and travails. One finger wouldn’t be graded ten out of ten in a finger competition. My forehead has a small mark, could call it a dent, hardly noticeable by anyone other than me. That’s the list. Thankfully a tiny list.

I’m not counting a botch job of a hospital scare that a boyhood appendicitis left me. Images of that time don’t stack up to a big pile but one of rolling in agony on a living room sofa, I’ll never forget. A colourful children’s ward and unendingly cheerful nurses stick too. And a clown.

There are those near misses that leave no physical signs. Rich selection of memories. An acute compression in time. The electrical shocks I’ve had have no legacy other than my great respect of high voltages. Vivid recollections too.

Yes, if it wasn’t for a wide-awake race marshal at a grass track meeting[1], I’d probably have been run over you a Laverda sidecar outfit. Thankfully someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me to safety behind the straw bales that made up the ring. This was the 1970s in a bowl-shaped field outside a small town called Mere. Perfect for that crazy kind of bike racing.

At the time a mate of mine was a keen amateur photographer. He’d get a pass to photograph the action. We’d go to grass track and road race Auto-Cycle Union (ACU) meetings around the West Country. It was always interesting to read the disclaimer on our marshalling race tickets. Anything bad happens – not our fault.

My finger damage is much more recent. It’s the dumb stuff that caught me out. Moving plant pots around doesn’t usually result in any great consequence. Most of them don’t weigh a lot. In this case a large square fiberglass pot needed moving. I had tried pushing it. That didn’t move it far as it scraped slowly along the patio. Next tactic was to pull it. Getting some momentum going it seemed to move more easily as I pulled it. What I didn’t count on was the fragility of the material of the pot. It had aged. I pulled hard and surprise, surprise, it broke. I went flying across the patio at speed. Naturally, I put my hand out to save me tumbling down a flight of stairs. Sadly, my finger took the first impact. That was painful.

Life without one or two bumps, bruises and grazes is unimaginable. Maybe, I’ve got a little bit more risk averse with age. However, like the back garden plant pot incident there’s always an opportunity to be foolish. Having a story to tell about my father falling off a ladder while fixing a gutter, I’m particularly careful around those potential death traps.

I’m happy to admit that I haven’t got nine lives. Or at last I’ve used up a few.

[1] Example: https://youtu.be/ZqC2Hc43a3w

Guilt: Double-Edged

Guilty as charged. At the end of a crime drama that’s what I want to hear. There’s been a resolution. Justice has been done. The baddies have been locked up and the aggrieved are vindicated. Oh, for the simplicity of the simple story. I guess that’s why they are liked so much.

What I want to spin a couple of lines about here is that whole subject of guilt. In reality, that multi-layered feeling is more complex than the two sides of the coin of my crime drama example. A world of purely nothing but good and bad does not exist.

There cannot be a single modern human who has never experienced a form of guilt. Even those who are on the edge of sanity or living as a total hermit will at one moment or another experience remorse, regret, or shame. A lingering uneasiness about what has happened, what’s happening or what might happen.

It’s built into our brains in a fundamental way. Because we can reflect on thoughts and events and learn from them, so we can analysis, even at a superficial level, poor decisions, failures, mistakes or tragedies.

Then comes the internalising thought that – I should do better or have done better. Surely, I should have seen that coming. How did that happen to me? Why me? What did I do? In the answer to those questions a feeling responsible permeates. For past events this can be compounded by knowledge that comes from hindsight.

These emotions can be entirely illogical. For example, feeling guilty about a random event that I have absolutely no responsibility for. An occurrence where, whatever I did, it would still have happened in one shape or form.

On the positive side, a feeling of responsible born of guilt can be a powerful motivator. Moments that tip people from a bad course of action to a good one. A true moment of learning.

On the negative side, guilty feelings can be destructive. They create resentment and even suffering. Especially when associated with any kind of injustice, intolerance or manipulation.

That gets to the point that I had in mind. It’s when people use of guilt as part of the general management toolbox. I’ve experienced that one often enough at work and elsewhere. Putting in those extra unpaid hours because if I didn’t the outcome will reflect badly on me. Doing that job, that I didn’t want to do, because someone was insistent that my saying “no” would result in failure. Not competing would let the side down.

My point. Don’t do it. For anyone who has authority over another, moral or actual, this is a foolish way to get things done. It can work in the short term. The problem is that such emotional blackmail has a lingering tail. That tail can kick-back and so it should.

What’s in a box?

I didn’t have a jack-in-the-box as a toy. Springing into life at the flick of a catch. For the larger part frightening the living daylights out of a young child. Or is it play, and thus basic training that surprising events can be scary and fun? Early days of leaning to handle risks.

In this case my boxes are square. Although they don’t need to be square. They are square or rectangular on a ballot paper (usually). These boxes are a boundary within which a mark is put to say “yes” this applies or “no” this is does not apply. Naturally, that can be the other way around too. For that matter they can indicate all sorts of conditions or views.

Here’s my beef. Back in March, this year, me and the Sun developed our relationship. There’s the giveaway – year. My number of years on Earth clocked up to sixty-five. At the time, I didn’t think of this as any more significant than past birthdays as a man of mature years. Then I got to completing numerous questionaries. Yes, I have moved the subject to more stuff to do with data and its use. Collecting data has never been so popular.

Never in the whole of human history have we, you and me, been faced with so many questionnaires. Almost every time I buy a coffee, and use a card of App to collect points, next day my in-box has an e-mail with a survey. Most of these I just ignore. Now and then, I fill one in with the ridiculous idea that the insignificant draw prize they offer could come my way.

Please offer your feedback in this short survey. The number of minutes they say that are needed are never right. Then they, the collectors of my data, get greedy. Asking for “as much detail as possible”. At this point I want to say – get real. What’s even worse is clicking on the “Next” button and then an error message comes up saying “This is required”. What audacity. Checky. Pushing my good will to its limits. If there were questionnaires about questionnaires, when it asked: “please tell us how your experience was on this occasion” they would get more than 100 creative words.

All this said, my real beef is to do with the collection of personal data. There’s no obligation to provide such data, when it comes to marketing surveys. This is when the incentivising possibility of a prize comes in. Afterall this data is valuable to the collectors with little incentive for a respondent to offer it. Surveys with prizes must have published terms and conditions. I wonder if anyone ever reads these legal niceties.

To the point. One question that often gets asked is – tick the box appropriate to my age. What I’ve noticed is that several of these unsolicited surveys have a box marked sixty-five and over. It’s like a whole section of the population is piled into one big bucket. Like we all fall off the end of the bell curve. Over 11 million people in England and Wales are like one.

I’m part of a growing cohort. That maybe good or bad but it is the case. It’s the case too that my cohort spends. Again, for good or bad, we are the beneficiaries of some good fortune. However, marketing surveys continue to sit in the stone age. At both ends of the demographic bell curve, toddlers and more mature folk, we are viewed as the same, one big bucket. I imagine data collectors and the designers of surveys have wrestled with this one. Whatever, the results don’t sit well with me.

The Power of Numbers

If I was to give advice to a politician in power, it would go like this: numbers matter but don’t let them dictate the right course of action. Of course that’s fully loaded advice. The right course of action is subjective. That can mean expert or non-expert judgement of such a great wide range of felicity that it doesn’t bear thinking about.

For a long time, there was a mantra that organisational policy should be data driven. There’s quite a bit of wisdom in this statement as an alternative to arbitrary opinion and volatile reactivity. There’s no doubt an organisation is better off if it has a few able number crunchers.

I can recollect times when I’ve been advised to look favourably upon one way of presenting information as opposed to another way. Not that either was in error but that one way would reflect better on the management of an organisation. This is a perfect example of Lies, Damned Lies and Statistics[1]. Which is often nothing to do with lies but rather the presentation of information. Some would say manipulation.

Sacking a head of a Bureau of Statistics because the numbers their technical people produce are not favourable, well that’s one way to go. It’s the sort of action that’s take in devoutly authoritarian countries. Better not be embarrassing the higher ups at any cost.

Suddenly, I’m taken back to my “O” level history lessons. Our enthusiastic secondary school teacher who wanted us to love the Russian revolution as much as she did. It’s a fascinating but brutal period for Europe. Here I’m thinking of Stalin’s Five-Year Plans. A Russian official, in the late 1920s, would have been very unwise indeed to produce anything other than favourable statistics. However, for all the cruelty and suffering Russia did archive a rapid industrialisation.

Numbers matter. My dictum. If they are wildly inaccurate or manipulate numbers, they are worthless. Even presentational they are worthless because few will believe. Credibility is key but that’s often the issue. Who do you trust?

My domain has been aviation safety numbers. The analysis of these numbers can be of significant consequence. Going back to that data driven philosophy, if the numbers are wrong the direction of travel will be wrong. When policy making has an objective basis then it’s much easier to justify to a wide audience. There are advantages in having trustworthy numbers.

In the ideal world, a degree of independence is essential. This is so that the producers of statistics and associate information can endeavour to be accurate and unbiased. Doing this without fear or favour to any interested party can take some resolve. It’s only possible in an environment that is both inquisitive and respectful.

I say “degree of” as an observation. Just as investigators often follow the money trail, it’s as well to consider who is paying the bills. The analyst’s salaries must come from somewhere. Again, in an idea cultural environment where integrity and trust are valued, it’s not those who are funding the number crunching work that should determine (dictate) the results. Let the numbers speak.

The ideal world doesn’t exist but it’s clearly unwise to swerve away from it at speed.

[1] https://www.york.ac.uk/depts/maths/histstat/lies.htm

Our Bubbles

I’ll coin a way of thinking about the world that’s more empirical than the result of any in-depth study. Maybe it’s not even original. The idea came to my mind because of something someone said this week. It was part of seeing a wider world rather than their everyday experience.

As an aside, and not surprising given that I was 6 years old in 1966, my football team was West Ham United. Not because I lived anywhere near West Ham, or had any concept of what London was like, but that team had the best players. Bobby Moore and Geoff Hurst.

Be patient, there’s a link. “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles[1]” is so tightly associated with West Ham it’s as important as those years after the 1966 England World Cup win. The club anthem of West Ham is a strange song for a long-standing English sports team. Especially when the club’s origins are more to do with the river Thames, its industry and docks.

Now, I know. It’s impressive and it’s akin to the so-called butterfly effect. A small event happens but it sets off a chain of events that become much larger, and unrelated to the original event. The song has endured, I suspect, because it sums up sporting success and failure. Hard to grasp, continually bursting but enduring because there’s always another opportunity to win.

If I’m going to discuss bubbles then that’s the first thought that comes to my head. Those ephemeral objects that float through the air. Perfectly self-contained only hanging together by tiny molecular bonds. Pretty bubble floating through the air.

Here’s what was said: “We live in a bubble”. Meaning those commonplace, often tedious, daily concerns and troubles that enclose our place and time. Bubbles can only be seen if an observer steps outside their boundaries and looks at the innumerable other bubbles.

I wander around with ahead full of thoughts and notions. They are often repetitious and going around in circles. That annoying job I’ve put off. Those awkward words that I now regret. That wondering how I’m going to tell someone that I’m not going to do what they want done. The list goes on and on. There’re good thoughts too. How much I appreciate my partners tolerance. How fortunate I am when compared with those mentioned in the morning News. Remembering a past success and a nice cup of coffee.

“We live in a bubble”. It’s so easy to take a point of view based on nothing more or less than the contents of our minds in own bubble world. Mental bubbles overlap. Several people may have bubbles that are more or less the same. In politics, I could say there’s a liberal bubble, a conservative bubble, socialist bubble, a fascist bubble. There’re all out there somewhere in bubble world.

Being an early riser, my first conscious act is to hit the “on” button on my radio. This week, I caught a prayer for the day by Steve Taylor[2]. He was making the point that it’s often our sense of separateness that is the cause of a lot of suffering. I interpret this as people being stuck in a bubble without comprehension of all the other bubbles in existence.

When we transcend our separate mental bubbles there’s a chance of better understanding. I’m not brave enough to say that this act would sort the conflicts in the world, but it would be a good start.

[1] https://youtu.be/H62SuMpMhc0

[2] https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m002g4mn