A Ruddy Sunset, George Herbert Mead, and Big Fat Jerk Tom Shafer in a Hot Tub

by Tom Shafer

May 1, 2019

So, still recuperating from back surgery, I slipped into my hot tub for the first time a couple of weeks ago. A little nervous, I gingerly moved the individual parts of my body into the water, starting with my left leg and finishing with my right arm, until I was finally seated. The small of my back was uncomfortable at first, but with a little time, I settled in and quickly remembered the soothing nature of warm, pulsing water under a beautiful nighttime sky.

At that time, I was just seven weeks removed from surgery, and my recovery had been uneven. I could tell that physical therapy was helping, but I was still having difficult days, and though my sleep had improved, I was experiencing nights where discomfort kept it away. I had hoped that returning to my nightly routine, which included twenty to thirty minutes in the hot tub, would alleviate my aching back and legs.

Actually, I just wanted to get back to my regular routine, period. Because my pain had been so encompassing before the surgery, I essentially had no routine. I slept very little, sometimes not at all, so my days were filled with exhaustion – and the constant search for comfort. I had long given up on medication (which didn’t help at all) and instead sought distraction. However, even if I found something to entertain me, I found little solace in it if I couldn’t place my body in a position that was marginally comfortable. This had been my norm since July of last year when my tolerable pain finally turned intolerable.

But I knew that my life was improving. I was sleeping now, even if it wasn’t the perfect eight hours (which I have never experienced anyway). I could find sitting positions that were comfortable, and walking was not a struggle and obstacle anymore. For others it may have been difficult to notice, but I could tell that I was moving more like Trimodo than Quasimodo, and on some days I felt like Bimodo! So, in my hot tub, I reflected on all of this, and recognized that this (getting in the hot tub) was just one more step toward full recovery and improved quality of life.

As I lay there, I began to realize how quiet it was. Though I live out in the country, some ambient noise seems always to be present. Automobiles and pickup trucks on Hilltop or Fairgrounds are frequent, as are aircraft flying out of Wright Patt and Wilmington. Cows on nearby farms – and dogs – typically make their presence known with low moos and warning yawps. And, winds on our little hill are generally constant, slipping through the branches and leaves of the woods behind our house, creating a soothing woosh that is a background to life here.

But tonight was different. There were no vehicles on our local roads. The animals were unusually quiet, and no wind was discernible. The silence was intense and profound. Suddenly, I heard the hum of a single plane, off on the horizon, flying west. As I watched it, I was surprisingly reminded of a poignant moment some years earlier when I was flying back from Florida.

My dad had recently passed from cancer and a melancholy descended upon me unexpected. Though not a poet by any account, something about the scene playing out below me at 600 miles per hour had me waxing poetically – in thought anyway – and I wrote this on an American Airlines napkin:

Ruddy sunset punctuated by intrigue
The romance of flying
-- At night
The lives unseen below
Amber-colored lights twinkling
Banking smoothly through the waning light
A darkened blanket of clouds
Shimmering as the sun disappears
The city is gone

Crappy poetry aside, I have to admit that flying always makes me feel this way. I always select a window seat for this very reason. As I look down on the landscape passing quickly below me, I can’t help but wonder about the lives of the people living in the smaller towns and villages. I see individual vehicles traveling back roads, headlights on, and contemplate the worlds they have created for themselves. Are they heading home or going to work? Have their lives turned out as they had hoped – and if not, do they care? Are they happy and content, or filled with hurt and disappointment? I even ponder how my life would be different there.

Have you ever wondered about the randomness of your entry into this world? That you were born to your parents instead of another set? That you were reared in the town (and country) of your parents’ choosing instead of another? That you were blessed – or cursed – with the early experiences that have so defined you?

If not, well, then welcome to my world. To a certain extent, I blame this on George Herbert Mead, co-founder of philosophical Pragmatism. He called the self a “social emergent,” arguing that individual selves are the products of social interaction and not the preconditions of that interaction. In other words, you, the true you, are a product of your experiences and interactions with other people – and not the result of an innate, individualistic reality and capacity (which somewhat defines philosophical Individualism).

When I was younger, I certainly would have called myself an Individualist. I believed that my self would exist that way anywhere it was placed, no matter the circumstance or background. Whether I were born into poverty or opulence, nurturance or neglect, my true self would endure and emerge. Today’s Tom Shafer might even recognize that person.

Now, however, I find myself leaning toward Mead and his Pragmatists. When I judge my self against the upbringings that I see around me, I’m not sure it would surface in the way that it has today. The external influences that exist (like some family structures) may be too restrictive and overbearing. Intentional or not, these forces may act to suppress any individualism that may be too fragile to survive. Perhaps John Locke (though first posited by Aristotle) and his notion of tabula rasa (that we start with a blank slate and are fated to fill it) were right after all.

I would like to think that the Tom Shafer who lives just south of Yellow Springs, Ohio, would be the same Tom Shafer in Cartersville, Georgia, or Soddy Daisy, Tennessee – or New York City for that matter. I love the idea that some innate part of the self who is Tom Shafer was there at the start, right there at birth. But I’m just not sure anymore. The Tom Shafer who lives in Soddy Daisy might be a big, fat jerk with a perfect back but a terrible golf swing – oh, and I know what some of you are thinking right now, and that’s not very nice!

Whether you are a Pragmatist or an Individualist – or maybe a little of both, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. We’re talking philosophy after all. What does matter is that you are making your self as happy as can be possible. Or maybe “content” is a better word. I always want my self to be more content than happy. Isn’t that how a philosopher is supposed to respond?

Was this some great stream-of-consciousness writing, or what?!

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