So, by way of analogy, what might an error in attempting to (say) consider the opposite look like, and what would a good “mental posture” be that would make the error matter less?
(written before reading on)
Outward orientation. Focus on features of the external world. Seeking harmony with the movements of reality.
Here are some motions I might make if I discover I’ve failed to consider the opposite:
Oh no, I’ve broken a rule! That was bad and I am bad. wallows What do I need to do now to atone?
Can I retroactively save myself from fully acknowledging that I’ve made the error by finding a convincing argument showing that I didn’t actually need to consider the opposite in the first place?
This is evidence that I’m intrinsically not the better version of myself I like to imagine.
I’m not as good as the people who wouldn’t have made this mistake.
If you startle a cat that’s preparing to pounce, it might suddenly jump, whereas if you startle it wile it’s lazing about, it might just twitch and look at you suddenly. When it’s preparing to pounce, its posture makes jumping the default reaction to anything that happens.
If any of these mental motions is my reflexive response to discovering an error, I must be posed for self assessment, as though I’m prepared to pounce on myself—“What do my experiences mean about me as a person?” - and for judgement of my relationship with other people, with imaginary versions of myself, or with a system of rules.
Some motions I’d rather make upon discovering I’ve failed to consider the opposite:
Consider the opposite. (Better late than never.)
What was the nature of my mistake, what damage have I done, and how can I repair it?
How would I like to respond next time I encounter an experience like the one that happened just before I made this mistake?
(Preferably in that order.)
What posture would make these thoughts the sort I’d have as an automatic reflex if a failure to consider the opposite were to sneak up on me and yell “boo”?
There are probably some more specific good answers to this, but the one that comes to mind—and my current best answer to the more general question “what posture is good for rationality?”—is something like “seeking harmony with external reality”.
This is a feeling I’m familiar with from partner dance. When I’m not dancing very well, I tend to have a strong inward focus. I’m concerned about what I am doing, whether the thing I did was what the lead meant for me to do, and how I look to other people.
When I’m dancing my best, my focus is always outward: on the lead, on the music, on the patterns of movement we’re creating together. My focus is on the dance, not on myself. It’s a kind of being in love, an intense selfless attentiveness to the phenomenon of dancing.
Similarly, when I’m trying to make good decisions in the midst of uncertainty and frequent error, I move more effectively if my attention is on the world, instead of on myself.
Excuse me for getting all poetical, but: Just as a master dancer must be in love with the dance, so must a master rationalist be in love with the truth. Maintaining a posture of selfless attentiveness to accuracy is what it means to be in love with the truth.
When I’ve fallen—say, by failing to consider the opposite—and may have damaged my model, this kind of outward-facing, world-aligned mental posture helps me spring right back up to rejoin the dance and make things right again.
[Edit: “Maintaining selfless attentiveness” is most of how I personally be in love. I am aware of having an unusual way of being in love. This might be closer to what most people experience as parental love than romantic love. Anyway, it’s probably a bad phrasing for most, and just a good handle for me.]
(written before reading on)
Outward orientation. Focus on features of the external world. Seeking harmony with the movements of reality.
Here are some motions I might make if I discover I’ve failed to consider the opposite:
Oh no, I’ve broken a rule! That was bad and I am bad. wallows What do I need to do now to atone?
Can I retroactively save myself from fully acknowledging that I’ve made the error by finding a convincing argument showing that I didn’t actually need to consider the opposite in the first place?
This is evidence that I’m intrinsically not the better version of myself I like to imagine.
I’m not as good as the people who wouldn’t have made this mistake.
If you startle a cat that’s preparing to pounce, it might suddenly jump, whereas if you startle it wile it’s lazing about, it might just twitch and look at you suddenly. When it’s preparing to pounce, its posture makes jumping the default reaction to anything that happens.
If any of these mental motions is my reflexive response to discovering an error, I must be posed for self assessment, as though I’m prepared to pounce on myself—“What do my experiences mean about me as a person?” - and for judgement of my relationship with other people, with imaginary versions of myself, or with a system of rules.
Some motions I’d rather make upon discovering I’ve failed to consider the opposite:
Consider the opposite. (Better late than never.)
What was the nature of my mistake, what damage have I done, and how can I repair it?
How would I like to respond next time I encounter an experience like the one that happened just before I made this mistake?
(Preferably in that order.)
What posture would make these thoughts the sort I’d have as an automatic reflex if a failure to consider the opposite were to sneak up on me and yell “boo”?
There are probably some more specific good answers to this, but the one that comes to mind—and my current best answer to the more general question “what posture is good for rationality?”—is something like “seeking harmony with external reality”.
This is a feeling I’m familiar with from partner dance. When I’m not dancing very well, I tend to have a strong inward focus. I’m concerned about what I am doing, whether the thing I did was what the lead meant for me to do, and how I look to other people.
When I’m dancing my best, my focus is always outward: on the lead, on the music, on the patterns of movement we’re creating together. My focus is on the dance, not on myself. It’s a kind of being in love, an intense selfless attentiveness to the phenomenon of dancing.
Similarly, when I’m trying to make good decisions in the midst of uncertainty and frequent error, I move more effectively if my attention is on the world, instead of on myself.
Excuse me for getting all poetical, but: Just as a master dancer must be in love with the dance, so must a master rationalist be in love with the truth. Maintaining a posture of selfless attentiveness to accuracy is what it means to be in love with the truth.
When I’ve fallen—say, by failing to consider the opposite—and may have damaged my model, this kind of outward-facing, world-aligned mental posture helps me spring right back up to rejoin the dance and make things right again.
[Edit: “Maintaining selfless attentiveness” is most of how I personally be in love. I am aware of having an unusual way of being in love. This might be closer to what most people experience as parental love than romantic love. Anyway, it’s probably a bad phrasing for most, and just a good handle for me.]