Untitled (Thoreau’s right. I am a tool.)

2024-05-22

Dear reader,

“But lo! men have become the tools of their tools,” Henry David Thoreau wrote in Walden in 1854. Thoreau observed that something changes in a person who freely stops to pluck a ripe apple from a wild tree. They dream of owning their own place, complete with orchard and a Kubota with all the attachments. Next comes the mortgage and the 9-to-5.

Thoreau’s right. I am a tool. Yes, there’s the mortgage. But really, it’s the cats.

First it’s Lupine. She comes into the bathroom this morning while I’m flossing. She looks at me, and then swivels her gaze over to the sink. I know what she wants. I reach over and turn the faucet to a trickle. Lupine leaps to the counter and starts lapping. She reaches out her paw to direct droplets into her fanged mouth.

There’s nothing like water from the well, when it’s so cold in the morning that it startles your cells awake. Meanwhile, the dish by her food is tepid and might even have a crumb or two of kibble in it. I respect your choice, Lupine.

Lupine hops back down and walks to the door. She looks back at me, raising her tail in the air and curling it, then uncurling it, as if it were an ostrich fern. I take this opportunity to run my hand down her spine, enjoying her soft fur and quick purr. She then drops on her side on the floor, stretches her legs in both directions, and—I swear—she smiles at me.

The philosophers tell us that everything about this interplay is made possible by something called “theory of mind.” If I saw Lupine as a mindless robot, I’d probably ignore her gaze and take no joy in her purr. If she saw me as mindless, she’d have no reason to stand in front of me with that look and convey her wanting. She’d be stuck with the stale water.

It’s called a theory because I’ll never know what’s in Lupine’s head. I’ll never see a “mind” under a microscope, but that doesn’t stop us from talking about them and agreeing as a consensus that they exist.

As I leave Lupine reclining on the rug, I climb downstairs, where I find Lavender sitting at the front door, her gaze locked onto mine. Lavender might be Lupine’s lookalike sister, but she has a mind of her own, and she’s about to communicate something with it. Lavender stands on her hind legs. She reaches up to the brass doorknob and cradles it with the insides of her forelegs, looking back at me with her huge black pupils.

We then trade back and forth what psychologists call “tactical ignoring,” a jiu-jitsu where we attempt to shape each other’s behavior. I don’t mind opening the door. But I don’t want to do it right away. That’s a step on the path of her meowing from the foot of the stairs at 4 a.m. every morning.

I pick up Lavender and cradle her, scratching her ears. My goal is to entice her to purr and relax, with the ulterior motive of throwing her mind off the scent. “Forget about the door,” I’m telling her through my actions. “Our relationship comes first. I’ll open the door when I please.” 

Lavender sees right through this. She grumbles as I pick her up. Rather than melting into my arms and relaxing her eyelids, she stares back. “I can see what you’re trying to pull here,” she says. “No purr for you.”

I concede that my ploy was empty. “Fine,” I say. I plop her down and open the door. Both the cats run to it. As always, Lupine pauses at the threshold while Lavender hops over her, out into the dawn.

Lupine and Lavender might be near-identical twins, but you’ll never confuse them when you regard how differently they’re animated. Lavender laps her water from the bowl. She’ll watch Lupine drink from the faucet, but doesn’t care to make the leap. Lupine watches our puppy from a safe perch on the top step, whereas Lavender lingers in Oliver’s path, smiling and reaching out her paw.

“Theory of mind” is a good start, but there’s clearly more. I give you: the “theory of spirit.” I find talking about spirit to be just as useful and as important to our health as the mind and the body. I’d like to do so without irony and without being pigeonholed into a religious faith.

I’d like to talk about spirit in the workplace without being considered “woo woo.” No one should ever again utter the words “hippie dippie” as a way of apologizing for something a little different.

Embrace that “spirit” is just as real as “mind,” and don’t be shy about it with your employer. At a time when people are turning down soul-crushing jobs, finding room in our professional roles for unique expression can turn burnout back into excitement. Employers experiencing retention problems would do well to encourage free spirits, not slap them down with stale norms.

This isn’t about personality, a concept that’s been medicalized and monetized.

Isn’t it interesting how social media apps and streaming services love to categorize you in order to sell you niche products (often pharmaceuticals or intoxicants)? Isn’t it interesting how these same apps are built like casinos—no clocks, no exits, always more titillations to keep you inside?

The way they could gain my customer loyalty would be to regard me more like Lupine does. I’ll be her tool anyday, with honor and pleasure—because I know that we regard and appreciate each other at a soul level. 

I’d love to see the day when Netflix says, “Recommended for you: Volunteer in a community theater production.” How about this as a news alert: “Is the election making you feel anxious? Try baking some cookies and bringing them around to neighbors you’ve only ever waved at.” Will Spotify ever say, “How long has it been since you played your instrument?” Will ChatGPT ever say, "I bet you know the answer if you consult your own heart"?

Humanity is worthy of better, and I’m tired of waiting for Big Tech to put people first. As of today, I’m entering the app game myself. The A.I. assistant I’m building for you will insist that you turn it off as often as possible, go for a walk, and listen to the callings of your own soul, your unique spirit.

I can’t say a lot about it publicly (yet), but I’d be happy to show you some pieces of it out back. Want to come see a patch of dwarf ginseng, Panax trifolius, that has just gone to seed? I’m going out there now.

Warmly,

Tristan Roberts

Quill Nook Farm

What are you doing today that doesn’t compute? Write author Tristan Roberts, State Representative for Windham-6, at tristan@tristanroberts.org to join the rebellion.