Adaptive Delusions

In the Matrix movies there was a pill they gave so you could see through the delusion of the artificial reality in which we live.  They didn’t give it to fogies; their minds couldn’t handle it. 

These days, people are talking about adaptive delusions -- those unrealistic beliefs that help us get through life.  “The sun’ll come out tomorrow,” sang Little Orphan Annie.  The soldier fights on aided by his good luck charm.  Dumbo can fly so long as he holds the magic feather.

I’ve always thought of myself as a hard-minded seeker of reality.  This, itself, may have been an adaptive delusion, protecting the little fantasies that got me through the day.  Having achieved fogiedom, I now suspect reality is overrated.  Phooey on Socrates; the examined life is not worth living. 

Take religion.  I quote Martin Luther, who said, “Here I stand, I can do no other.”  I used to be a great believer in reason and logic.  Now I say, if you can do no other and must worship the goddess Chandi with her eighteen arms, I’m not about to argue. 

The other day I visited my granddaughter Katie’s pre-k school, where the pupils did a dance.  The girl next to her was really into it, swinging her arms, tossing her head so her hair flew, and grinning with pleasure.  Katie’s mouth was a straight line, and her movements were controlled.  I knew why.  She was determined to get it right. 

In twenty years the other girl will be out boogying on a Saturday night, while Katie is home working on next year’s budget.  She comes by it honestly.  Annette and I are like that, and so are Katie’s mother and father.  Four years old, and we’ve ruined her! 

The idea that you can make a household budget for the coming year is as delusional as not having a care in the world.  We should pick our delusions carefully in the hope they’ll be adaptive.  But there I go trying to be rational again.  Most of our delusions are picked for us.      

I give up. Alas, I too must strive to get everything right. Despite my admiration for that dancing child, feeling the music and moving with abandon; despite my yearning for the bliss of the unexamined life, I can’t get there. I don’t know where I went wrong.  I suspect it may have been Unitarian Sunday School at the First Parish.  I confess I have severe doubts about Chandi’s eighteen arms – I’ll consider six at the absolute most.  Reason and logic may not lead me to Truth, but I can do no other. They’re all I’ve got.