An Essay on Ideas
In this essay I will explore the nature of ideas, how they interact with each other and other things, and how we experience them. An idea is a recognizable, repeatable set of components that human beings can discover in physical things, like boxes or trees, and metaphysical things, like relationships.
I begin with a question: What is a box?
This particular piece of wood beside me might be a box, but even if it is, I have only given an example of a box -- I haven't defined it. I know this is true, because there are other examples of boxes. This one is made of wood, but I've also seen cardboard boxes, boxes with steel mesh sides, and paper boxes, so I assume the material that makes up the box is unimportant. This box is cubical, but I know of cylindrical boxes used to hold hats, and a heart-shaped box in which my mother keeps her jewelry, so the shape may also be unimportant. The definition of a box, at least, doesn't exclude those shapes I've mentioned. This box beside me only holds air, but even when it held books it was a box. Some boxes are large enough to hold elephants, and others are so small as to be difficult for human hands to manipulate. Every one of these things which I call boxes, though, contains space and can be opened or closed. Even though this thing beside me has many things that make it unique, different from other boxes -- its material, size, and shape -- it also has features common to all boxes. Not only is a physical thing, comprised of physical elements, but these elements relate to each other in a recognizable, repeatable way. There is a certain set of elements that are constituents of the definition of a box. This set of elements has an existence of its own -- as an idea.
This idea, the set of elements defined as "contains space and can be opened or closed," has an independent existence, which I discovered through examining all the things that I call boxes, and it also has a type of existence which is dependent on the elements found in other things. Its independent existence is demonstrated because I can think about a box, or the boxness of an object, without a physical thing for the idea to adhere to. I can even think about the way boxness relates to emptiness and fullness, since one aspect of a box is its ability to contain and be filled. The depedent existence of the idea is demonstrated because I can discover or fail to discover the idea in any particular thing, depending on its elements. If a thing does not have the constituents of boxness, it is not a box. If a thing loses a constituent necessary to boxness, it ceases to become a box. If I am mistaken about or ignorant of the elements in a thing, I will not discover the idea that exists in it or I will mistakenly believe that an idea exists. A child plays in a wooden crate, and as long as she is playing with it, I may never consider that the crate is a box. Once I decide that I need to move my books into my car, all of a sudden I will discover the crate's boxness. The wooden blocks my child plays with look about the same size as jewelry boxes, and they are wooden, a quality shared by many boxes. Nevertheless, no matter how hard I try I can't carry my grandmother's engagement ring in one of them.
Another aspect of ideas is their coexistence in things. Every physical and metaphysical thing plays host to many, perhaps an infinite number of ideas. This, for example, is a box. Its material is wood. It is a cube. It is a container. It is small. It is a piece of creation. It is able to be manipulated by human hands. Each of these ideas exists -- the set of elements that makes up each idea is found in the box before me, and none excludes any other. This is because each set is unique. If an element of the thing changes, one idea may leave the thing while others remain. If I remove two sides, the thing will no longer be a box, but it will be wooden and small, it may still be a container, and it is still a piece of creation, manipulable by human hands. If I leave the box outside for ten years, the material will rot and decompose. It may still be small or wooden, but it is probably no longer a container or manipulable by human hands. It's probably no longer a box, but it's certainly still a piece of creation. Each idea is made up of a different set of elements, so when the elements that make up one idea are independent of the elements that make up another, one idea can leave the thing while the other remains.
The decomposed thing (which I'm not certain is a box) presents another interesting question about the existence of ideas -- what are their boundaries? The thing was certainly wood before it was left in the rain. Two hundred years later, it is no longer wood, though it remains organic matter. This means that somewhere in between, at least one element necessary to the idea "wood" was lost. It seems unlikely that a person could point to the precise moment when the thing was so decomposed as to no longer be considered wood. If this is so, what sort of existence does the idea "wood" have in the physical thing when the thing seems to be between ideas, when it might or might not be wood?
The first thing to examine is whether the thing really does exist between ideas, or if I'm just wrong about its lack of definition. If I have never distinguished how decomposed a thing must be to stop being considered wood, then I will be unsure whether or not the thing before me is wood or not. I have left a fuzzy boundary to my idea. This may not be a bad thing. If every time I need to distinguish wood from not-wood, I'm dealing with a choice between wood and metal, I don't need to set the level of decomposition at which a thing stops being wood. The distinction, in that case, is not useful. My idea "wood" has some clear boundaries where certain components have been distinguished, and these boundaries serve me well. Where components have never needed to be defined, the boundary is fuzzy.
In the case given above, the thing exists in an in-between state until I more precisely define the constituents of the idea. There is another case in which the thing seems to be between ideas of wood and not wood because of my ignorance: I have a definite idea, but don't know whether or not the thing has the qualities of the idea. If one of the constituents of my idea "wood" is that it not break apart in my hand, I may not know whether a thing lying on the ground before me is wood or not. This time it is not because I have failed to define the constituents of the idea. If I pick up the decomposed thing and it breaks apart in my hand, it's not wood. If it doesn't, it is wood. If I'm ignorant about what elements a thing contains before I pick it up, that doesn't mean that it exists with two contradicting ideas.
A more problematic case in which things seem to exist between ideas is when people's opinions differ about what constitutes a particular idea. Despite having the same information, you and I disagree about whether or not the thing before us is wood. Does it exist as both wood and not-wood, at the same time? If so, what does this mean? Can we come to an agreement? If we agree that the thing is wood, what have they agreed to? Do we have the same idea? Can people ever share ideas? Clearly, we can have different ideas, often with the same words attached to them. Human experience is incredibly complex. We can distinguish between ideas in very subtle ways. Because of this, we often speak with subtly or radically different notions of what each other means.
If my idea for wood includes "can't break apart in my hand," and yours includes "may break in my hand, but will not crumble into dust," then our ideas are not identical. We do not completely share the idea of wood, even though most people would say we were talking about the same idea. The difference between our ideas is where we draw the line based on how easily it breaks apart. Because ideas are so complex and subtle, most ideas will not be shared completely. As in this case, small differences will be discovered. Does this mean that, because of the uniqueness of each person's experience and the general subtlety and complexity of everything in creation, we can never share ideas and are doomed to a life without communication?
An idea is a set of elements, discovered in a thing. One constituent of my idea of wood is that it not break apart, and one constituent of your idea is that it not crumble into dust. All the other constituents are the same. We share most of the elements that make up our ideas of wood, and only disagree at the periphery of our definitions. We do not have the exact same idea, but our ideas still have much in common. The fear of aloneness based on the complexity of ideas is unreasonable because we don't need identical ideas in order to share the elements of our ideas that are common. We can move towards a greater understanding of the differences between our ideas. We can come to agreement or better understand our disagreement. Interestingly, even if we disagree, we are still communicating. I might think your definition of wood is wrong or unhelpful, but that doesn't mean that I haven't understood you and why you hold your opinion. The honest expression and understanding that can be demonstrated by true agreement or disagreement is a sign of the sharing of ideas and communication.
If it was important to either one of us, you and I could argue about whose definition of wood is a better one. We could agree on the use of the word "wood" to refer to things that fit only one of our ideas, in order to avoid confusion. If we're looking for woody organic matter to put in our compost, and we only have our hands to carry it with, then my definition of wood will be far more useful to us than yours, since it is easier to carry large pieces than things which break apart in our hands.
At this point in the essay, I have demonstrated that an idea has an independent existence, and also a type of existence that is dependent on other things. It can be discovered or not discovered; it can come into existence in or disappear from particular things. I have shown why ideas can coexist. I have also explored the problems of ambiguous definition, ignorance, and communication. All of these are explorations into the nature of ideas, but they do not show why ideas are so important to human experience. I end the essay with an attempt to answer that question.
How do we experience ideas when we interact with creation? Is it an esoteric endeavor? Does it require deep thought? Do we interact with ideas only with effort, or is it a constant aspect of our experience? Ideas are in fact as readily sensible as what we usually consider the more basic aspects of our world. This is true even if we had to learn to perceive the idea after its more basic elements. Consider the example of words and letters. When I look at an English word, I see in it a collection of letters, not a bunch of lines and squiggles. I have learned to perceive the ideas of letters and words, and I sense them as readily as the lines and squiggles that play host to those ideas. This also true of things that are not human artifacts. I know the idea "tree," and as soon as I see a tree, I know it as one. If I have more experience, I might readily perceive that it is a birch tree, or even a white birch tree. These ideas are learned, but that doesn't make them any less readily sensible.
One reason to discover new ideas and to make connections between and refine old ideas is that it helps us become more able to manipulate the world. If I know about carrying things from place to place but not about boxes, then when I discover the idea of a box I greatly enhance my ability to carry things. However, in addition to its obvious utility, there is another benefit to expanding my ideas. Knowledge of ideas deepens and enriches our experience of creation. Each piece of creation has, overlaid on it, an infinite number of unique ideas. We may be able to come to know any of these ideas. Most we will not. The box is a box, made of wood, a container, a cube, it is occupying this particular place in space and moment in time -- all of these are ideas to be found attached to the box. As we learn more ideas and grow accustomed to them, we sense them readily. It takes no more time or effort to sense ideas than their more basic elements, just as it takes no longer to see words and letters than squiggles. Before the work of learning is done, I see a thing without ideas attached to it. Once the work of learning is done, I see the thing, but in the same moment I also see that it is a box, a cube, made of wood, a container, and so on. I comprehend more and more of creation, perceiving more and more layers as I learn and grow accustomed to more ideas. My life is made richer.
This sense of enrichment and the joy that comes of it was became obvious to me in my experience of music. I have studied music for years, and I still hear loudness, shrillness, pretty melodies, and driving rhythms -- the same things I heard before I began to study. Now I also hear, with the same amount of effort, the direction of a harmonic progression, cadential formulas, and the digressions from standard sonata or rondo form. I even hear slight differences between this performance and one I heard last year, or the change in a composer's style from youth to old age. The experience of the music was beautiful before I studied. With study, though -- with all these ideas I now perceive in each instant, layered one on top of the other -- the music is no less beautiful, and I have no doubt that my experience is richer than it was before I began.