The Last Generation

Countdown to Singularity, Image via Wikipedia

Are we the last generation of humanity?

One of the unique aspects of human consciousness is a desire to understand the nature of our reality. This has manifested itself across all domains of life: spiritual, scientific, psychological, and philosophical. As a species, we are blessed with a deep dissatisfaction with whatever our current circumstances may be, leading to a drive to improve our quality of life. This has lead to the rise and fall of civilisations and religions across the ages. Distinct from this waxing and waning of interpersonal systems has been a much more steady rise in our technological sophistication. Of course there have been hiatus, often caused by an influx of newcomers into a rigid society e.g. the arrival of the Sea Peoples leading to Bronze Age collapse, or the fall of the Roman Empire due to political infighting during a period of external pressure from the Goths. Similar patterns can be detected in civilisations across the globe. But while the collapse of societal structures have delayed technological progress, they have never been able to fully press the reset button, and so sophistication accumulates.

It has been suggested that such progress is logarithmic, leading inevitably to the development of a technological singularity at which time mankind would be able to design an artificial intelligence greater than its own. Beyond this point, such superintelligences become able to improve themselves faster than man can understand, leading to an unpredictable and rapidly-evolving future. The idea is old, stretching back to the 19th century, but has received much greater attention and publicity over the past quarter-century. Theories abound as to whether singularity is possible, and whether the implications will be transformative or apocalyptic for humanity.

What is certain is that recent technological progress has done nothing to suggest that the theory is fundamentally flawed. Almost every day brings stories of startling new discoveries. For instance, it is now possible to read what another person is thinking, at least in a very rudimentary fashion. Is it really so far-fetched to assume that at some point, the technology to do so will be refined, miniaturised and made portable?

Consider your mobile phone, and how it would have seemed the height of science fiction even 30 years ago to suggest everyone would be routinely carrying around such incredibly powerful and versatile devices. It does not seem unlikely to me that such technology would continue to advance and become so integrated into our lives that it becomes integrated into our bodies, with displays directly interfacing with our retinas. Science fiction? Only just. There are already more than a dozen electronic prosthetic retinas in various stages of development and clinical trials, with an aim of restoring sight to the blind. While still primitive, money and time have a way of solving most difficulties, and both have been made available to these devices. The next obvious step would be using such technology to augment vision, instead of merely to restore it.

Even if we do not go down the road of cybernetic implants, it seems irrefutable that our degree of technological immersion will advance in other ways. Our entertainment systems, our cars, our phones, our very ability to acquire and process new information: all are already heavily influenced by electronic networks. It seems almost irrelevant whether they become physically part of us; they are already mentally – and emotionally – part of us.

The great hope of many transhumanists is that technological singularity and our increased integration with electronic networks will lead to a form of immortality, at least of consciousness. This has the vague air of eschatological myth, albeit built upon scientific hopes rather than religious ones. One might even describe this unconscious desire for ego dominance over death as a power phantasy.

I am not so convinced; everything I see suggests we are on a path to a very different kind of existence, with potential for a signifiant degree of self-actualisation within its broader scope.

Unfortunately, I do rather suspect the transhumanists are over-optimistic on the timeline. They suggest singularity sometime around the middle of this century or a little later i.e. within my lifetime, with luck and good health. I have a sneaking suspicion that it will arrive somewhat later. I will have to make do with other ways of seeking Jungian individuation.

Strange to think that my generation may be the last to need to do so.

Archetypes, Stereotypes, and the Absence of Knowledge

Image via Wikipedia

All knowledge is ultimately self-referential, imbued with only such meaning as we choose to give it.

The archetype is a difficult idea to grasp within Jungian psychology. Archetypes are thought to exist within our psyche, being innately derived. Jung suggested that their existence is due to our connection with the collective unconscious, a broad sharing of the unconscious mind across humanity and across the aeons. While this can have spiritual overtones – and to Jung it likely did – it can also be interpreted using a less spiritual framework. Archetypes can be considered as a set of psychological memes passed down socioculturally through the generations, perhaps reinforced genetically by some basic similarities between all humans in terms of how our brains are neuroanatomically formed.

Archetypes include our Self – the person we both are and aim to be; the Shadow – those traits that lie hidden within ourselves, and often from ourselves; and the Anima/Animus – the part of our psyche that allows us to understand and communicate with the opposite sex. It’s also perhaps possible to consider our Persona – the person we project to others – as a form of archetype, although I consider it a simpler more superficial entity than the others mentioned.

When these archetypes come into contact with the world, a number of consistent mythic symbols are created to understand them. They have been referred to as symbols, motifs or archetypes-as-such. I like to think of them as Stereotypes. Stereotyping is often thought of as a bad thing these days, but in truth, the Stereotype has an important beneficial function. They are widely-held, over-simplified views but that also makes them very useful as a short-cut to understanding the world. Stereotypical forms of archetypes include the mythological motifs of the hero, the wise old man, the earth mother, and so on.

As we perceive the world around us, we do not process every situation as being fresh data. Consider: colours are not real; colour is a perception, or construct, based on the wavelength of photons hitting our retinas. Similarly, what we think of other people are also not actually real people; they are constructs based on the data we receive from those entities. We each possess a personalised understanding of who other people are, and what they mean. There is no objective reference yardstick by which to measure them. We interpret their existence both consciously through reason, and unconsciously through archetypes and stereotypes.

A careful reader might now suggest that if conscious thought and reason can allow interpretation, then this potentially provides a scientific approach to understanding. This is only true if reason itself is independent of archetypal influence. As our rules of reason are human constructs, we cannot be entirely certain that this is so. Munchhausen’s Trilemma (also known as Agrippa’s Trilemma) suggests that any line of reasoning can eventually be boiled down to one of three arguments: circular, regressive and axiomatic. Circular arguments depend on the theory and proof supporting each other, regressive arguments become a never-ending series of proofs, and axiomatic arguments are based on an assumption of correctness.

This is a difficult proposal to accept, but consider a child asking why the sky is blue. You could argue that the sky is blue because we have defined the colour we perceive it to be as blue: a circular argument that ends the debate but does not fundamentally answer the question. You could humour the child by discussing wavelengths of photons and the energy they carry, the effect that energy has on the retina, transduction mechanisms, post-processing of the transducted stimuli into perceptions, psychological constructs of perception, the concept of a construct, the meaning of a concept, and so on, without ever really getting to a final irrefutable proof. This regressive approach allows for a vast expansion of knowledge, but at some point you have to limit your field of study, or be trapped in a never-ending sequence of “but why?”s. Finally, the poor parent of our inquisitive child may simply snap, and say “it just is”: a mere axiomatic assertion of truth.

You can choose to accept any one of the three horns of trilemma and still carry out much productive work, but that does not answer the trilemma’s problem.

Jung’s archetypes and the stereotypes that result from them could be conceived of as humanity’s practical solution to the trilemma. They give us a framework for understanding ourselves, each other, and the ideas and concepts we create, without us ending up in a never-ending morass of “unknowability”. Of course, archetypal theory is in itself just as trapped by the dilemma as is any other idea (and indeed, is the trilemma itself, if you want to give yourself a headache). But it does allow us to think about who we are in a practical way, and consider who we might become.

Buddhists have the concept of sunyata or “emptiness”, which seems to my limited understanding of the term to be a similar concept. It suggests a middle way between the nihilism and anomie of nothing being provably real and the illogicallity of considering what we think of as real being necessarily true. It hints at a way of finding meaning in the emptiness by embracing it and finding oneself in that void. Jung might call that individuation, the ultimate manifestation of one’s potential self.

All knowledge is ultimately self-referential, imbued with only such meaning as we choose to give it. And what a wonderful opportunity and privilege of our humanity that is.

The Fetishisation of Perfection

Head of a Nymph, Sophie Anderson

I must confess a penchant for complex systems.

There is little more pleasant than the intricacy of checks & balances, although I only enjoy them if my understanding of them arrives through noting the overall patterns that result, rather than through crude mechanistic analysis. Appreciating the underlying ebb & flow of emergent phenomena speaks to what Jung would have termed my intuitive rational nature.

My fondness and aptitude for noticing these mechanisms is at least part of what attracted me to psychiatry. The mind is doubly complex, consisting as it does of both physical and psychic constructs. The physical is the complexity of our neuroanatomical wiring and the neurochemical connections within that network. While some argue that theoretically the psychic world can be entirely understood through the physical, even such reductionist evangelists would admit that our current understanding is a long way from complete.

The psychic world is the more intriguing. It consists of our modes of thought: how we view ourselves, others, and the interplay between these entities. We create an internal construct of both ourselves & others, often built upon rather dubious foundations, and our entire understanding of the world in predicated upon these constructs. Some of the constructs emerge through experience, some are models formally taught to us, and some are probably rooted in a genetic hard-wiring. Even more amusingly, we are only generally aware of a small minority of the conceptual filters through which we view the world, which gives rise to what Freud would term the unconscious mind and perhaps also to what the spiritual would call the soul.

Regular readers know I enjoy a variety of complex systems; not just psychiatry & psychology but also clothes, economics, philosophy and some kinds of art. The common thread linking these interests are the delightful emergent patterns that are created through expression & exploration these systems. Different schools of art & philosophy, different conceptual models of the mind & human behaviour, different fashions & economic systems… they are all best considered not as absolutes with pros & cons relative to some theoretical gold standard, but as different sensory modalities. No-one would ever claim that smell is better than sound, or sight is better than touch.

Of course, this very relativist and individualist intellectual position of mine is itself derived from a set of preconceptions. In the end, everything anyone can attempt to say really is nonsense, if Wittgenstein will pardon the liberty of my paraphrasing. But this is to miss the point entirely: it’s rather delightful to play the game anyway.

The title of this post is a lament at how much of the world either cannot play, or refuses to play. Instead, they focus on improving things in an endless search for perfection. While superficially a laudable goal, the problem is that in order to improve a situation, you must understand the system well enough to know what improvement means. Simply having one specific goal in mind frequently – possibly, inevitably – leads to problems in other important areas. Imagine a fat woman being squeezed into a too-small corset: the narrow waist comes at the high price of either fat spilling over as visible unsightliness elsewhere, or internal distress. Similarly, targets and outcome measures can lead to many more negative issues in unexpected areas even if the target is achieved. Better to appreciate the system for what it is, and harmonise your existence within it, which can mean insulating yourself from its excesses by detaching yourself from its impact through rising above it.

Naturally, I am extremely grateful that most people prefer to seek perfection. It has led to tremendous improvements in material comforts, and grants me the luxury of not having to live a purely subsistence lifestyle myself. Nonetheless, those capable of broader perspective will be happier for indulging that aloofness rather than chasing the flitting faerie nymph of perfection. The nymph, you will recall, generally doomed her lover.

The Meanings of Masks

What do you see in the above image?

If you’re anything like me, your first thought is “ritual cultic mask”.

In fact, it is thought more likely to be protective headgear worn during metal-working in Bronze Age Greece. The mask is one of many I saw displayed on a recent visit to the National Archaeological Museum in Athens. It is interesting that my preconceptions/mental associations of Ancient Greece as a powerful mystical cultural source led to my assuming the mask had an equally mystical role. It’s amusing to see one’s own assumptions turned on their head; it encourages further thought.

Masks are commonly thought of as means of disguise; a way to conceal identity from detection. But in fact, they can also be used to create identity. Think of the masks used in Greek theatre or Japanese Kabuki, both designed to evoke the spirit of a character and so allow the observer to know how to react to their stage antics. Think also of Venetian carnival masks, used in a more permissory manner to give the wearer freedom from their normal responsibilities; a license to be licentious.

Masks are also commonly used in funerary rites, especially in earlier eras (though the art of the modern mortician could be thought of as continuing this ritual remaking of the dead). The Mycenean golden death mask below is also from the Athenian National Archaeological Museum, and has the rare feature of depicting the dead person with eyes open:

The death mask illustrates another role of masks: to transform the person wearing the mask into something else. The image below from the Benaki Museum in Athens is not a mask (it’s a garment buckle) but my reflection in the cabinet’s glass while taking the photo neatly replaces my own face by the Gorgon’s face (you can just about see my shirt collar below). Another masked transformation of sorts…

Masks can therefore be co-opted as disguises, as emotional guides, and as transforming agents. And of course, they are deployed in a metaphorical way during our daily lives, as we mould our words and actions to suit different circumstances, sometimes suppressing our inner thoughts to do so.

On that note, I will end by quoting American author Clifton Fadiman on the risks of our using self-created masks too often:

For most men life is a search for the proper manila envelope in which to get themselves filed.

Mickey Mouse, Mammon, and the Pope

Disneyworld, Las Vegas, and the Vatican City. Three disparate locations; one shared phenomenon.

At Disney, it’s parade-time; in Vegas, it’s in effect as you walk onto the floor of a casino and observe the players; and in the Vatican City I saw it a week ago as the Pope was driven around St Peter’s Square.

All three places become home to communal acts of idolisation and worship. Despite different form, the essential emotional experience to participants is identical. The three locations are each overwhelmingly artificial; designed and built purely to facilitate worship. This deliberate other-worldliness is enforced by a shared obsession with pristine cleanliness within their borders, and a rigorously enforced exclusion of competing idols. Even the decor is carefully chosen to aggrandise the object of worship. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the tromp l’oeil clouds of Caesar’s Palace, and the fairytale castle of the Magic Kingdom all fulfil the same purpose.

It is the human condition to crave a shared spiritual experience and anyone watching the Champions League final earlier this evening saw football provide the medium, and Wembley Stadium the setting, for a similar emotional experience. It is a desire to be part of something bigger than oneself, and so achieve a sense of immortality and overcome the transience of life and the permanence of death. Religion, Mythology, Folklore, the idols of corporations (including the famous Mouse), and even more abstract concepts like Money, all fulfil this tribal need of allowing the propagation of a cultural meme to the next generation.

Later on the same day I saw the Pope, I was mulling over these ideas while sipping espresso in the Piazza Navona and watching tourists and locals go about their day. What were they really achieving? What was the fundamental meaning of all this travel and pseudo-pilgrimage? It reminded me of the concept of “bucket lists” and their wistful attempt to apply some quantitative criteria to measure the significance of a life. Is it really enough?

It’s a very human thing to want to be able to say you have achieved something in life, even it’s just to have been happy. People talk about the importance of “a good death”, sometimes equating it to a painless sudden death at an advanced age. But I rather think it’s more about achieving a sense of acceptance about death: what Erikson would describe as having enough Ego Integrity to no longer give death a sense of importance in life, and so no longer need idols to worship.

Why do you take photos?

Image by Capt Kodak via Flickr

Watching the amusing Business Nightmares (BBC2, Monday), the interview with a former senior Polaroid executive stood out. Polaroid is of course a company whose core product simply became obsolete for the mainstream user. He commented: “We weren’t able to see that people wouldn’t want a hard copy print; it sure came as a heck of a surprise that people wouldn’t want one…”

Then he paused and sheepishly admitted “But I don’t either”!

For many, the physical photo album has indeed become quaint, but let’s face it, those physical albums were only rarely looked through anyway. Are their modern digital equivalents viewed more, for all their greater accessibility? Probably, but I suspect there is still only a spike of initial views and then increasingly rare subsequent views.

Some photographs are taken with artistic aspirations, though perhaps pretensions is a more accurate word for the many taken with this intent but in the absence of talent. Others are taken for purely documentary or illustrative purposes in mind, be they journalistic or commercial in nature.

But the majority of photos are simpler snaps; taken to solely to mark a transient experience and commemorate the passages of life’s rituals. The documentary quality of the image is almost irrelevant in these cases; the emotional power of these snaps are nearly all in the acts of taking and sharing the image. I don’t Facebook myself, having an aversion to acquiring yet another time sink, but I’m struck by the avid taking and sharing of images by those who are on such social networking sites. The sharing of a photograph has an interesting dynamic tension: it works to define the sharer’s identity, but simultaneously the highly communal act requires others to pay the photograph attention to render it this definitional power. The photograph can thus be seen as a social transaction between the taker/sharer and the community, where the utility of the transaction is a mutual strengthening of interpersonal ties and roles.

This is a similar role to that of photos in their former hard copy incarnations. The leafing through the physical photo album was a ritual done at time of social or emotional need, to remind self and others of their respective roles through a remembrance of the emotional content of times past. This is the mythic power of the photograph, where it is not the content that matters, but the symbolism.

The photo is a conduit to emotional social resonance, similar to ancient folklore passed on through the oral tradition, or engrained ceremonial ritual such as we recently witnessed in the Royal Wedding.

If you have a favourite photo, do you love it for the image, or the emotional memory it evokes?

The Modern-Day Monk

It is not surprising that several guests at Friday’s Royal Wedding were anonymously quoted as “feeling jaded” yesterday. Anticipation of great events is commonly followed by a drained numbness, even if the event meets elevated expectations. Life thus passes by as a series of interspersed highs and, if not lows, mediocre neutrals. Is this the sum total of the human experience?

Man has historically found three ways to neutralise this nihilistic perspective: fame, religion and propagation.

Fame, with its associated glamour, can be fleeting or it can last a lifetime. Occasionally it outlasts its originating source and is considered worthy – or notorious – enough to be important to historical and cultural record. Whether transient or semi-permanent, its nourishment to the famous person is thin when weighed against the permanence of death. It can sustain the mind in the short-term, but is ultimately lacking.

To combat this failure of Temporal Power to assuage anomie, religion developed to offer believers escape from death, whether through reincarnation or heaven. Such Spiritual Might remains a comfort to many, channelling and guiding human emotion into soothingly predictable paths. Like Temporal Power, it offers individuals a larger sense of self that is part of a grander existence than Hobbes’ description of Man’s life as “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short”.

But for many, meaningful fame is impossible (the Warhol-esque 15 minutes of reality TV or social networking hardly counts) and religious faith escapes them, or is actively shunned. Frequently, their final refuge is propagation and it is a rare parent indeed that does not think of their children as the best thing they ever did.

Creating the next generation is certainly a valuable role; I would not want to see the human species wiped out! But does it truly offer a solution to the impermanence of man? I suggest not; the real essence of even the best of parents is lost from collective memory within at most four generations. As long as the parent does not think too deeply about this inevitable historical dissipation, Familial Legacy can substitute for either Temporal Power or Spiritual Might and stave off despair at the prospect of death.

What if none of the above are to the liking of the individual, if all are thought to fail the essential test of overcoming fear of death and giving life meaning, what then?

Enter the Modern-Day Monk.

The archetype of the man who seeks spiritual enlightenment through disengagement from the world is an ancient one. We see echoes of his presence in all the major world religions, mythologies and philosophies. Traditionally, the Monk has sought physical separation from the world; either to wander alone or in the company of select fellow travellers on a similar journey. He has used asceticism as a tool to aid enlightenment. Asceticism encourages the abandonment of sensual pleasure and material wealth, deeming these to be distractions from personal growth.

The Modern-Day Monk follows a different path to individuation. It is not physical abandonment of the world that is important, but intellectual detachment. This detachment from the value systems of others (the Temporal, Spiritual and Familial spheres) nonetheless permits material and emotional engagement with the world. He is able to weigh up and measure situations and people rapidly, allowing only positive effects through to his inner self. He comes across to others as tolerant and moderate, as he has no need to be otherwise. He enjoys the world, but does not let the world rule his inner heart. And in the face of new challenges, he has an inner core of willpower – a clear sense of self – to neutralise against torment.

The more philosophically (or religiously) minded will have already identified the characteristics outlined in the preceding four sentence as the Four Cardinal Virtues: Prudence, Temperance, Justice, and Fortitude respectively. The virtues are named Cardinal for being the hinge (L. cardo) upon which rests the door of life. It is not the door to a physical retreat from the world as the first step to an afterlife. It is a system to support and enhance our human desire to be part of the world, while not being ruled by it.

The Modern-Day Monk lives well, as well as wisely.

The Devil at the Bar in the 5* Hotel

The Devil, from the Codex Gigas, by Herman the Recluse

I found myself in a busy hotel, the typical four to five star business-friendly tower block that can be found in any city of the world. The decor was all cheap material with inappropriately expensive finish. Designed to flatter guests despite its abbreviated lifespan that permitted cost-effective frequent refurbishment to changing tastes.

I knew I was coming to the end of my stay, but had one more meeting to attend, in the hotel’s restaurant. Present was a woman in typical relaxed business dress. She told me I had to choose what happened next: would I go to Heaven or to Hell?

I turned sideways to notice the Devil in human form, wearing suit sans tie, sitting casually at the bar, sipping a cocktail and smiling at me.

I sat silently, pondering my choice.

The woman was friendly. She told me to go for a swim in the hotel’s pool before making my decision; that there was no rush. I got up in a trance, and wandered the corridors, looking for the entrance to the pool. Every time I got close, it transpired that I had taken a wrong turn. I returned to the hotel lobby and sat down to think.

The woman returned and sat beside me. I told her that the two options were irrelevant. Whichever I chose, I would still be free to make further choices, which would then let me escape either Heaven or Hell, and return to Earth. But if I didn’t make a choice, I would be trapped in the hotel forever, waiting to decide, still looking for the pool. She smiled and I woke up, feeling surprisingly rested and refreshed.

The dream is easily understood in the context of my last post concerning the Hermetica, though it is interesting that I do not feel that I am facing a choice currently. Perhaps because I already consciously agree with the answer I gave in the dream.

Certainly, I prefer my home to that hotel.

Choosing Wisdom

Hermes Trismegistus, floor mosaic, Siena Cathedral, via Wikipedia

‘I will build the Zodiac…

The lives of men,

from birth to final destruction,

shall be controlled

by the hidden workings of this mechanism.’

Destiny and Necessity are cemented together.

Destiny sows the seed.

Necessity compels the result.

Few can escape their fate

or guard against

the terrible influence of the Zodiac…

If, however,

the rational part of a man’s soul

is illuminated…

… the working of these gods is as nothing.

But such men are few.

Most are led and driven by the gods

which govern earthly life…

To my way of thinking, however,

it is our duty not simply to acquiesce

in our human state,

but, through intense contemplation

of divine things,

to detach ourselves from our merely mortal nature.

Hermes Trismegistus in The Hermetica, as translated by Timothy Freke & Peter Gandy

Borrowed from the library of Dr Neel Burton

Compiled thousands of years ago at the time of the Pharoahs, is there any more prescient statement of Man’s current condition?

Beyond the mortal influences of genetic nature (Destiny) and environmental nurture with its unconscious influence on behaviour (Necessity), lies choice.

It is up to us to choose to think, to act freely, to gain insight, and so also gain Enlightenment.

Few make that choice.

Suicide in Japan

Japan has an unusually difficult to interpret culture, at least to Western eyes. Its centuries of self-imposed isolation from the world under the Sakoku foreign policy of the Tokugawa Shogunate during the Edo period lent it a unique degree of insularity.

That this policy was only terminated under the duress of gunboat diplomacy when Commodore Perry sailed his “black ships” into Yokohoma Bay perhaps explains the sense of anxious inferiority that drove the country into the imperialism and breakneck economic development of the Meiji Restoration, and the militarism and nationalism underpinning the run-up to WWII.

The contrast between its remarkable rebound in the post-war years and the prolonged deflationary spiral of economic stagnation since the bursting of its property bubble in 1991 also tends to perplex outsiders.

I was fortunate enough to spend a couple of months working and studying in Japan many years ago, but cannot say I was able to do more than barely scratch the surface of this complex culture. Gaijin are always treated politely, respectfully, and with generous hospitality, but one was often not entirely certain of underlying attitude, and even sometimes definitely aware of the use of a carefully-applied mask of civility in order to maintain a sense of separation.

The complexity and insularity of their culture means that social norms within Japan can vary quite significantly from the rest of the world, and these norms are more likely to be maintained despite changing times. A striking example is the Japanese attitude to suicide. The esteem in which ritual suicide (seppuku) was held as an honourable solution to otherwise an unbearable situation is certainly not unique to Japanese culture. Similar deliberate ending of life to restore societal balance can be found in a number of cultures:  the falling on swords of classical Rome, and the Jauhur and Sati of Mughal India spring instantly to mind, and there are isolated individual examples in many other societies too. Still, the cultural background to suicide in Japan perhaps goes some way to explaining its persistently high rate.

Japan, by the most conservative estimate, has about 26 suicides per 100,000 population. The USA has 11, and the UK just 9. And with the impact of the 2008 financial crisis only adding to the longer-term economic malaise, the cost of those suicides on economic stability is climbing too, with estimates of 2.7 trillion yen (well over £20 billion) of lost output and costs due to suicide last year. Some of the associated costs are poignant in the extreme, and the spectre of a downward spiral of economic contraction and climbing suicide rates is an even more tragic thought than the deflationary spiral they’ve been trapped in for so long. The government is now trying to reduce the rate, but cultural attitudes are notoriously hard to shift.

The illustration is a cropped portion of Tatsumi Shimura’s Hanafubuki (Falling Cherry Blossom). The transient but beautiful cherry blossom season is metaphorically associated in Japan with the ephemeral nature of life itself. During the war, cherry blossoms were painted on kamikaze suicide mission planes; pilots sometimes even took cherry tree branches into the cockpit.

Sakura festivals are still held to celebrate the onset of the annual cherry blossom season, and I was fortunate enough to be able to time my own visit to Japan to coincide with the season. The TV news tracks the progress of the season as it gradually moves northwards through the country, and my itinerary let me celebrate the onset of the season twice, some weeks apart, in disparate parts of the country. Life and cherry blossom are indeed ephemeral but that’s no reason not to arrange them to your liking while you can.