Slow Havamal: 56

[kylec]

In the 56th verse, there’s another repetition of the first half from verses 54 and 55, then we’re told that it’s better not to know what will happen to us ahead of time. That ignorance will make us happier.

For the third time, we’re admonished to be only a little wise. The second half of this week’s verse focuses on knowing our fates in advance. That suggests to me a connection between wisdom and the ability to predict the future. Of course, one of the things Odin learned in his search for wisdom was the runes, and runes are a popular divinatory practice today. I don’t happen to know if they were used like that in the 10th century, and I doubt it. That said, even if this is a caution against the overuse of oracles, an ability to interpret signs of futures to come from an oracle isn’t that different from being able to look around you and guess where events are heading. Both rely on associating certain signs, whether a rune or a sequence of events that you’ve seen before, and connecting it to a type of outcome witnessed in the past. A man teetering on a balance beam can be a warning of a potential fall, for example.

That’s effectively what I’ve argued is the nature of wisdom throughout these essays. Wisdom is a framework of experiences that we can connect in various ways. When it’s good, it serves as a map by which to navigate. A map has symbols that help us predict where and when in the future we will come to a certain junction, or a mountain range. It isn’t literal, but it’s enough to guide us. Such is our wisdom. The more we experience, and the more we let things form connections organically instead of forcing our own narratives, the more capable we are of guessing how things will turn out.

Being bad at predicting the future surely has its disadvantages, but we’re talking about the pain of being good at it. When we’re only wise enough to predict broad strokes in certain realms, we can imagine all sorts of wonderful outcomes while steering clear of obvious disasters. The wiser we get, the more particulars we see. That promising vision of a perfect life somewhere down the road that lifted us from bed every morning is tempered and realistic. I would point out that so is the disaster we may have feared. The extremes are polished away. We’re left staring down the barrel of a rather ordinary life, in which triumphs are always balanced with the hard work he had to do to get there, and the realities of the things that follow.

Some of us will be destined for wonders, or at least contentment, and others, for misery. The wise man is robbed of much of the surprise. The carrot on a stick that kept us going, even if it was vague, no loner pulls the cart. We can’t ignore the predicaments staring at us, and we can’t console ourselves with promises that aren’t likely to materialize. Conversely, we can’t dream disasters where the road is clear. What dawns is a world that cares very little for what we expect, and goes about its business in a way that reveals to the careful observer the general course of things without flattery.

If we’re committed to wisdom, we get to see clearly to the forfeiture of our wilder hopes. What’s left to motivate us, then? Every fortune is made by a thousand tiny acts repeated often and without fanfare. Ignoring the whole journey makes us salivate at the result, because we don’t see the cost, or the continuation after we’ve arrived. What we gain with wisdom is the present. We will never arrive at a future. The future is an abstraction that the wise use to make decisions right here and now. What we are left with is what we had all along: the present. Now, it’s no longer a hateful chore to be endured in pursuit of arriving once and for all at the carrot. The present is the only place we have any personal power. To see the journey as a whole and appreciate every muddy slog and moment of relief along the way will prevent the ebullient joy of the somewhat-wise. But a better understanding of that whole can only lead to wiser decisions. Each act is an arrival at a place, more or less foreseen, that we can appreciate in its bare honesty. It isn’t just the glorious recital, but the years of practice, scales and etudes, broken strings, skipped sessions, hours of theory, exhilaration at nailing a few new measures, and at last, the performance, followed by packing up, going home, and whatever comes next.

Stripped of our delusions, we may no longer crave our future. I would argue that the almost-wise never really get the future they crave. Instead, we are left to live in the only place we’ve ever had: a shifting present whose course the wise may influence in some small way.