Slow Havamal: 63

[kylec]

The 63rd verse says that to be wise, you must both ask questions and answer them wisely; and that a secret trusted to one person may last, but if two people know, everyone else will, too.

Initially, there seem to be two distinct halves to this verse, with little to link them. In the first, we learn that part of being wise is knowing how to ask and answer wisely—itself, a two-part formula. The search for wisdom begins with the question. If I think I have all the answers, if everything seems to add up, I will never ask, and never learn. Learning, in essence, is change that maps better to the world of experience. I reckon the sequence goes something like this: I notice a discrepancy, or an event that doesn’t add up with the wisdom I currently have; I formulate a question (to the right person) designed to shed light on the confusing aspects; I receive an answer, and reformulate my worldview to make sense of such things.

But asking a wise question isn’t so straightforward. In framing the question, I direct the answer to a degree. There are no neutral questions. The subject that I ask about becomes the important thing in my mind, before I even receive an indication of whether or not that’s so. I can inject my biases, or miss the critical details. I can narrow in too much, or search among vague abstractions that don’t illuminate the particulars. I can ask too many questions, or too few. The act of questioning involves a certain humility, but in order to grow wise, I have to already have a little wisdom, otherwise my question is more likely to yield a confusing answer. So how can I know what to seek if I don’t know the answer?

That’s the dilemma of the wisdom-seeker. Probably, I’m feeling along the edges of my knowledge, probing where I imagine a shortcoming, a blurry spot. New wisdom can only extend so far from held wisdom, and in limited directions. A wise question must consider who will be answering. There’s much wisdom to be gained even by asking things of myself and meditating on the answer. I suppose it should never be so limiting as to lead the one answering. A good question leaves room for the wisdom of the source to intervene. It demonstrates at least an awareness of my blindspots, rather than a desire to reinforce a held opinion. I’ll only get wise if I can learn the art of the question.

At a certain stage, though, the seeker may become sought-after, or challenged on his wisdom by wiser individuals. Now, the answer becomes important. These, too, have the same pitfalls as the question. Problems of scale, shared meaning, detail, comprehension ability of the asker, etc., all factor in. Just as I accounted for the one answering, now I must account for the one asking, what they’re likely seeking, and how much I can hope to convey. My ego can’t be allowed to wax on to the detriment of the exchange. “I don’t know,” may be a fine answer in some cases. In others, a measured response and an act of co-seeking may be better.

The common thread as I see it is an awareness of the context of the question. I have to consider the other person, even if it’s me, and what biases lie in the questions and answers. Multiple rounds may be necessary to counteract the errors a limited investigation could induce.

Which brings us to secrets. I may be missing the connection, but I’ll treat this as a separate piece of advice wrapped in a single verse. There’s a human fascination both with knowing and harboring secrets, and being the one to share or root them out. It feels like a secret, once planted, has the inertia of a seed straining to clear the soil toward the light. Among my acquaintances, there seem to be two general types: those vaults who will keep a confidence under at least modest torture, and those gossips for whom a secret feels like a festering wound that needs to be drained. My inclination is to criticize the second, but I think it’s more complicated than good vs. bad policy.

The Cliff Notes version is that gossip and secret-breaking probably serves a purpose in a healthy community. Some secrets can indeed cause harm, and the more we know about people and their affairs, the better we can position ourselves in relation to them to either benefit or to avoid danger. It’s probably none of our business, but those busy-bodies enforce a communal standard of behavior by shaming those who don’t comply. Most of us have been in a family, a class, an organization where it was known that many secrets were kept, and it probably had a malignant feel. I think secrets and the ability to keep them are extremely important. So is the human inclination to discover them. The eternal struggle between the two dragons, gnawing at one another’s tails, ensures a balance in our relations.

That’s why Odin warns that if you feel your secret is important, tell no more than one trusted person. Once you tell two, it’s penetrated some magical barrier, and can only be fruitful and multiply. This at least keeps the secret factions to small sizes, where they can hurt fewer people. There’s a broader discussion of what constitutes one’s community here, but I think it’s outside the scope of this essay.

If I see any commonality, it’s that both aspects of this verse have a yin and yang—the wisdom to ask and answer well, the ability to keep or the impulse to divulge a secret. And both require a keen awareness of context. Perhaps if the order were reversed, I might even frame the asking and answering as a guide to discovering and keeping those secrets, as it well is. My takeaway is a note to self: be aware of what you seek and share, especially without realizing it.