Breaking a bone is seen almost as a badge of honor in society; people brag about which bones they’ve broken, how many they’ve broken, how they’ve broken them, etc. The person with the most broken bones, or with the most intense story, wins the prize of being either the most adventurous, the toughest, or the stupidest (or maybe a combination of the three). I personally have never broken any bones, which means I’m really lucky, I’m not adventurous enough, or I’m a genius. Whatever the case may be (I’m a genius), I’ve never had to go though the healing process of a broken bone.

Repairing a broken bone is relatively straightforward, though it requires some skill. In order for a bone to heal properly after it has broken it must be set. If a bone is set improperly and allowed to heal, it must be broken again and reset, otherwise it will become a malunion, which can be damaging both to the bone itself and to the surrounding tissues and joints. Once the bone is set properly, the two (or three or four or eight) pieces will grow back together and the bone will once again be strong enough to function normally.

In scripture, broken bones are mentioned scarcely. Broken hearts, on the other hand are mentioned quite frequently. Usually we don’t think of broken bones as being similar to broken hearts, but there are interesting parallels.

In one of my favorite chapters of scripture, God explains (among other things) why some people are not chosen to serve and lead, explaining that “their hearts are set so much upon the things of this world” (D&C 121:35). Much like with bones, our hearts can be set, and when they are set incorrectly we experience pain and discomfort. When our hearts are set in the wrong ways, on the wrong things, they must be broken again so they can be reset. A broken heart is the cure for a heart set on worldly things.

Our ultimate goal in life is to live so that we may have God’s spirit and presence with us, and our ultimate goal in death is to be reunited with God in our families. This can only happen when our hearts are set on the right things: Christ and his gospel. If our hearts are set improperly, and allowed to remain that way, it leads to a malunion, and a malunion with God prevents us from enjoying the blessings of peace and joy in this world and eternal life in the world to come. If we want to be united with God, we must examine how our hearts are set.

Sir Isaac Newton was a pretty smart guy; inventing calculus, elucidating gravity, and never getting married are just a few examples of his genius. Aside from getting hit on the head with an apple, he’s also famous for his three laws of motion. Almost everyone seems to know at least a little about these laws, and they have played an important role in the development and improvement of science and technology since their inception.

The first of Newton’s laws is often referred to as the law of inertia. This has been described in various ways with various wordings, but the definition I’m going to use is this one from The Physics Classroom:

“An object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.”

While this principle obviously applies to objects from a physics standpoint, it also applies to us as people (not just from a physics standpoint).

I’m fairly confident most of us have had moments or days or weeks in which we have a terribly hard time finding the motivation or the discipline to get out of bed or off the couch and tackle the activities of life. When we’re at rest we tend to stay at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced force. Inversely, when we’re energized and working hard and getting stuff done, it can sometimes be hard to stop, especially if we’re enjoying what we’re doing; when we’re in motion we tend to stay in motion.

Our motivational state depends on the forces acting on us, and we determine which forces act the most strongly. We do this based on what we give our time and attention to: friends, family, the news, fear, attractive individuals, etc. The more time and attention we give, the stronger the force and the greater the influence. If we always spend time with people who want nothing more than to sit in front of the TV for days, we tend to become people who want nothing more than to sit in front of the TV for days. If we spend all day on social media, we tend to develop the same attitudes and views as those we follow (even if we think we’re immune to it), and act accordingly.

No matter the influences we surround ourselves with, however, we are always the strongest force in our life. We still experience other influences, and they do affect our trajectory, but the course of our life is largely dependent on our own efforts or the lack thereof. This isn’t always clear, and sometimes we may feel we are bound under the influence of some other force that we cannot conquer (depression, anxiety, sickness/disease, addiction), but it is true. This isn’t to say these other influences aren’t strong; indeed they are some of the strongest forces we feel, but history is full of great men and women who have faced these forces and overcome them, through their own force of will (Theodore Roosevelt, Helen Keller, and Winston Churchill all come to mind, among many others).

We, too, have this power. We are the ones who decide if we’re going to succumb to the inertia of nothing and stay on our couch all day, or if we’re going to fight it and do the things we really, deeply want to do. We determine the speed with which we move, and the direction we’re travelling, even when unexpected events temporarily move us off course. Sometimes we find that the course we are pursuing isn’t the best one, and unless we do something about it, inertia ensures that we will stay on that path. It takes effort and courage to get our lives onto the path that will lead us to the greatest happiness and satisfaction, and sometimes it may seem like the obstacles in our way are insurmountable, but they are not. As Ella Wilcox wrote,

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent, or hinder, or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for nothing, will alone is great,
All things give way before it, soon or late.
What obstacle can stay the mighty force
Of the sea-seeking river in its course,
Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?

Each will-born soul must win what it deserves.
Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate
Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,
Whose slightest action or inaction, serves
The one great aim.
Why, even death stands still
And waits an hour, sometimes, for such a will.

“Will” by Ella Wilcox

One of the many phrases floating around in society is “What would Jesus do?” Usually this is used as a guiding moral question, and I rather like the idea. After all, most (though perhaps not all) Christians try to live their lives as similarly to Jesus as possible (in principle, not literally; I don’t know of anyone that’s actively trying to walk on water or anything). As I’ve considered this question and its implications in my own life, however, I’ve found that the principle is powerful but the scope is limited.

The question “What would Jesus do?” helps me in situations where the options are more discrete, with the two sides clearly delineated and everything seemingly black and white. It forces me out of any morally grey area I’m lounging in, and reminds me that in a choice between good and bad, I should probably choose the good. In a decision between helping someone in need or ignoring them and continuing on my way, it helps to remember that Jesus would stop and help, no matter the personal inconvenience.

In more ambiguous situations, however, this principle loses a lot of its power. When I’m trying to decide between two good things (or, more likely, two not-bad things), asking what Jesus would do doesn’t really give me the insight I’m looking for. If I were a good person (lol) trying to decide if I should tutor orphans in math or if I should work in a soup kitchen instead, asking what Jesus would do isn’t as helpful. What would he do? Probably both, and then a bit extra, plus a little miracle here and some profound doctrinal teaching there. I don’t feel capable of all that, so I’m left in the same position as before, with no idea as to the best course of action.

To remedy this, I rethink the question: rather than asking “What would Jesus do?” I prefer to ask “Would Jesus do this with me?” You might say this is an equally unhelpful question when considering the previous example, as he would both tutor orphans and work in a soup kitchen with me, so I would still be in the same position as before, but there is an important difference. Asking what Jesus would do gives the impression, subtle though it may be, that we are expected to do exactly as he would, that we need to be as perfect as he is in our decision-making (a clear impossibility for most of us laypeople). In contrast, asking if Jesus would participate with us in our decision takes away the pressure of perfectionism, and allows us to be confident that our efforts are, though not perfect, good enough. We should still try to make the best decisions we can, and we shouldn’t settle for inferior options, but knowing that Jesus would accompany us in our activities is a powerful assurance, and it has helped me many times when I’ve found myself unsure of how to proceed. So the next time you find yourself unsure of a decision, instead of worrying too much about what exactly Jesus would do, consider whether or not he would do it with you.

We all seem to want answers. And when we want answers we typically ask questions. This is pretty great, and has served us well for the better part of however long humans have existed. Questions are the lifeblood of learning, and without them progress and advancement nearly disappear. Without them we tend not to get answers, or the answers don’t make any sense. Sometimes the answers come before the questions. Sometimes knowing the questions is just as important as knowing the answer (What is Jeopardy?).

No matter our position in life, questions seem to come naturally to us. Many jobs consist of asking questions (can I take your order?). Children are question machines. Every scientific discovery generally begins with a question. We create and develop friendships and relationships in large part by asking and answering questions. We are an inquisitive people, with good reason: questions are a vital part of life.

Most people seem to understand this concept. What fewer people seem to understand (or apply), is the concept of question quality. Asking questions is important, but asking good questions is even more so.

What constitutes a good question may depend on the context of course, and a good question in one situation can be a terrible question in another. Some questions, however, are chronically low-quality, especially those involved in some basic social interactions: “What’s up?” “How’s life?” “What’s crack-a-lackin?” These kinds of low-quality questions have been ingrained into our collective social consciousness, losing nearly all meaning as actual questions. The answers they receive are therefore equally meaningless (“Fine,” “Good,” “Nothin”), so these questions almost aren’t even worth asking (Almost. They do still fulfill some important social requirements in certain situations).

Good questions, on the other hand, make us think in new ways, or make us think at all. They challenge preconceptions and assumptions, and open up new avenues of dialogue and discussion. I’m not an expert on good questions, and I don’t always know how or when to ask better questions, but I do think we could all benefit from trying to ask better questions in most situations. Tim Ferriss has an excellent view on this, and spoke much more eloquently than I:

Life punishes the vague wish and rewards the specific ask. After all, conscious thinking is largely asking and answering questions in your own head. If you want confusion and heartache, ask vague questions. If you want uncommon clarity and results, ask uncommonly clear questions.

Often all that stands between us and what we want is a better set of questions.

“Tribe of Mentors”

As I said before, I’m not an expert on asking good questions, and I struggle with this concept in my own life, but I think Tim Ferriss is right. It pays to examine the questions we ask. Sometimes we need to question our questions: why are we even asking? How can we improve the question? Do we actually need to know the answer right now? This applies broadly in life: in religion, education, relationships, work, economics, and the list goes on. So if you feel you’re not getting the answers you want (or any answers at all), take a step back and look at the questions you’re asking.

The philosopher Heraclitus has said the only constant in life is change (or, change is the only constant in life. Or, the only thing that is constant is change. It depends how you translate it or what Google results you look at). Change is indeed unavoidable; it permeates all aspects of life. Personal change is especially important, and millions (billions?) of dollars have been spent on self-help books, life coaches, and advice columns, all with the goal of helping people change.

Change and growth are often used interchangeably (intergrowthably?) when speaking in these contexts, but I’ve found they aren’t quite the same; to grow is to change, but to change isn’t necessarily to grow. The difference can be subtle, but it’s important.

To illustrate this, let’s turn our attention to plants, some of the greatest teachers. A plant can change without growing: it can shrivel, petrify, or oxidize (in more scientific terms, catch on fire), all without growing a single new root or shoot. For a plant to grow, it must go places it’s never gone before. A plant cannot grow while staying put; it must push deeper into the earth to grow stronger roots. It must reach outwards to grow longer branches and leaves. It must reach higher in order to reach its potential.

So too with humans. People can change in countless ways without any ounce of growth (we’ll call this “non-growth change”). They can change their interests, their habits, or their hairstyle, all while remaining essentially the same person. In order to experience growth, we, like plants, must go places we’ve never gone before, both figuratively and literally. We need to have those uncomfortable conversations, talk to people we may not normally talk to, take the class we’ve been interested in, or try that hobby we’ve always wanted to start. Growth is dynamic, and cannot be achieved standing still.

Non-growth change is still important: it helps cultivate relationships (making habits less annoying), improve productivity (helping use time better), and the list goes on. Non-growth change can even be an important facilitator or precursor of growth, giving us more time, energy, or resources for growth-related pursuits. It is vital, however, not to confuse non-growth change with real growth. We can’t become complacent in our lives because we feel that we’re changing enough; no amount of change will ever make up for a lack of growth. It is only by growing that we reach our potential (whatever that may mean), and that can only be achieved by going where we’ve never gone before.

Knowledge is power.

This phrase has become quite pervasive in our culture (and others maybe, I’m not sure), and is often used as an educational principle to encourage learning. As far as sayings go, it’s a pretty good one: it’s short, easy to remember, and appeals to our almost universal desire for power. My only issue with it is that it’s wrong.

Or at least, it’s not completely right. A key piece is missing, which is summed up nicely using a quote from the endless wisdom of high school students who whine about things: “When are we ever going to use this?”

Knowledge confers power only in proportion to its application. Knowing how to defuse a bomb is only useful if you encounter bombs that need defusing. Otherwise that knowledge isn’t making you powerful, it’s just making you knowledgeable. Scientific discovery is only as valuable as the applications that it allows: the technological advancements, treatment improvements, or behavioral changes it elicits. Knowledge that doesn’t change behavior isn’t powerful.

You might argue that even if you don’t ever come in contact with bombs that need defusing (hopefully you don’t ever), it is important knowledge to have just in case.

This is a good point: the potential application of knowledge is an important consideration in what we choose to learn. Sometimes what we learn will be powerful in the future, even if it seems pointless or inconsequential now. Alternately, we can go through life not ever needing to know that the U.S. has never lost a war in which mules were used. We can’t foresee all the situations in which we may find ourselves, but we shouldn’t stop ourselves from learning something because we don’t think it will ever be useful. Just don’t confuse being knowledgeable with being powerful.

With all this in mind, however, there is one way knowledge can be powerful without direct application: Education. Those who give others knowledge so that they can apply it are also powerful. If you teach someone how to defuse a bomb, and they go find and defuse a bomb (you know, just on the streets somewhere), then it is still your knowledge that has been applied (this is why teachers are so important; they are powerful people).

The best education isn’t just the giving of knowledge though. It is the instruction of how knowledge should be applied. It instructs how behavior should be changed because of the knowledge gained. The purpose of education isn’t just for us to know better, it’s is for us to do better and to be better.

I want to reiterate that I think the previous aphorism is a pretty good one, I would just make one minor alteration:

Applied knowledge is power.

Mountains have always been a source of inspiration for men and women, regardless of time period or location. The Ancient Greek gods lived on top of a mountain, and Moses received the ten commandments on a mountain. Mountains are often the subjects of poetic and musical musings, or romantic scenes. And for some reason, wherever there are mountains, people always seem to want to climb them. Incidentally, there are several ways we have come to measure and classify mountains, three of which I find particularly interesting.

The classic measurement of a mountain is its elevation, or how high above sea level it is at its peak. (This can be different than how tall a mountain is; the tallest mountain on earth is Mauna Loa, coming in at 33,500 feet, but its elevation is “only” 13,677 feet (most of the mountain being underwater).

A second measurement of a mountain is its prominence, which describes how high above its surroundings it rises. Erebor, the Lonely Mountain in Middle Earth, is the only mountain in its area, so its prominence is equal to its elevation (an estimated 11,483 feet). K2, the second-highest mountain in the world, has an elevation of 28,251 feet, but because it is surrounded by mountains its prominence is “only” 13,179 feet, less than half its elevation.

The third measurement of a mountain is its isolation, which is a measure of how far away the closest point of equal elevation is. The mountain Aconcagua in Argentina has an isolation of 10,264 miles; the nearest point of equal elevation (22,841 feet) is found on Tirich Mir, a mountain in Pakistan. Mount Everest has an isolation of about 23 million miles, the closest it ever comes to Maxwell Montes on Venus (elevation ~36,000 feet). This of course varies depending on the day and your astrological sign.

You may be wondering why I’ve taken the time to regale you with such profound, life-altering trivia. The reason is this: men and women, like mountains, are often described using these same terms.

A person’s elevation describes how high in an organization they are, how much they are esteemed by society, or how enlightened they are. People like Albert Einstein, Gandhi, and Marie Curie all have elevated status because of their intellectual or moral prowess. Like with mountains, elevation is a rather absolute measure of people; Einstein probably would have been considered a genius no matter who his peers were or when he lived.

In contrast, when we speak of prominent figures, we refer to how they stand out compared to those around them. For example, the Big Six in poetry refers to William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, William Blake, John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and Lord Byron. When considered together, none of them are very prominent; they are equally important in the history of romantic poetry. Their lack of prominence, however, does not equate to a lack of elevation; these poets are all literary geniuses.

This all leads me to this point: rather than seeking prominence, we should set our sights on elevation. Rather than being concerned about how much smarter we are than the person next door, we should strive for excellence no matter our circumstances. We should surround ourselves with people who lift us, challenge us, and inspire us, not who simply make us look good or feel good about ourselves. It isn’t hard to stand out among a group of idiots (unless of course you are an idiot).
And even the most intelligent among us aren’t truly isolated (except maybe right now because Coronavirus); every person you meet is smarter than you in at least one way, and one of the marks of a truly intelligent person is accepting truth and knowledge wherever it may be found.

Language is so full of nuance that sometimes even the most fluent speakers are unaware of the subtleties of what they’re saying. People spend their whole lives studying such nuance, and I am by no means an expert, but I do find it fascinating; the entire meaning of a statement can be changed by altering a single letter (For example, one of my friends once tried to tell someone, in Spanish, that he enjoyed dinner. Instead of saying, “Me gustó” (“it pleased me”), he said, “Me gusté” (“I pleased myself”), which has some sexual connotations…).

One nuance of English that doesn’t seem widely understood but has very interesting (and often important) implications is the difference between continuous and continual. Both have been defined as “without interruption”, but they don’t mean precisely the same thing. The most useful explanation I’ve encountered is this: when you turn a faucet on, water is running continuously, but when a faucet is leaking, it drips continually. If you’re doing something continuously, you never stop doing it, but if you do it continually, you do it intermittently but constantly.

An important implication of this is found in the Book of Mormon. When the prophet Lehi is describing his vision about the Love of God (as represented by the Tree of Life) he describes people “continually holding fast to the rod of iron, until they came forth and fell down and partook of the fruit of the tree” (1 Nephi 8:30). These people made it to the tree by holding continually, not continuously; there were times that they let go, but they still arrived.

The implications aren’t that we should feel fine letting go of the rod, but rather that even in those times that we do let go, when we make a mistake or fall short, we can have hope in our ability to regain our hold and make it back to God and partake of His love.

Parks and Rec is one of my favorite shows in existence. Each character is hilarious in their own way (how can one not appreciate Ron Swanson?), and the writing is rock-solid. I never get tired of watching it.

Throughout the show, Tom Haverford (who famously said “Love fades away, but things… things last forever”) is constantly throwing out ideas for businesses or products he wants to create. Among ideas such as “Saltweens: Saltines for teens”, a club called “club-a-dub-dub”, and “Disco Dairy: Spread the Party”, he at one point pitches “LASIK for fingernails: cut your fingernails once, you never have to cut ’em again.” Ben, to whom Tom is pitching this idea, shuts this idea down because it “seems impossible.” Later in the show, while on one of the classic “treat yo-self” trips, Tom sees an offer for Lasik for fingernails. He exclaims with disappointment that he came up with that idea, and then defeatedly agrees to have it done.

Both of these scenes together only last about 20 seconds, but they struck me recently. We all have ideas and thoughts and plans, but we have to be careful with whom we share them. Often an idea will be brushed off by someone because “it’s impossible” or “there’s no way you could pull it off” or (most dangerously) “that’s not how things work,” when in reality it’s a fabulous idea. Other times an idea will be lauded as the greatest thing since sliced bread when really its on par with jumping off a building with only an umbrella (unless of course you’re Mary Poppins).

It’s hard to determine the value of an idea, to predict whether it’s good or bad, but I’m of the opinion that good ideas are stifled more often than bad ideas are embraced. Nearly every idea that has improved the world was at one point viewed as outrageous, impossible, or nonsensical.

The people around us can be a powerful influence on our success or failure, and when they tell us our idea is stupid, they can be right; sometimes it is the wrong idea. But sometimes, it’s just the wrong people.

Humans are commonly said to have five senses: touch, taste, sight, smell, and hearing. This is such a common paradigm that any time someone seems to have an ability outside those five senses, it’s called a sixth sense. You always seem to be able to guess correctly in games of chance? Sixth sense. You always seem to know which way is north? Sixth sense. Your mom can hear you talking back to her under your breath even though you’re in a different country? Sixth sense.
There are two reasons this isn’t a very good model of human senses. First: everyone knows the real sixth sense is the ability to see dead people. Second: humans have a few more than five senses. Some of these other senses include balance, temperature, itch, pain, and more. Even touch is more nuanced than “I feel stuff when I touch it”.

My favorite sense is proprioception. Proprioception is, put very simply, the ability to sense the position of your body in space (inner space, not outer space, unless you do happen to find yourself in outer space). While reading this you know where your legs and hands are, and how they are positioned, without looking at them. You can (maybe) type on a computer without having to look at your hands while you do it. You usually can’t see your own face, but you know what expression you’re making (you can verify this yourself: think of the last time you were numbed up at the dentist and someone took a picture of you “smiling” as you inadvertently drooled all over yourself). The list goes on and on, and all of it is possible because of proprioception.

The reason it’s my favorite is because it’s one of the most underappreciated senses we have, but also one of the most important. In his book “The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat” Oliver Sacks describes a woman who lost her sense of proprioception: she couldn’t walk without looking at her legs and deliberately moving them properly. Her arms would randomly drift around if she wasn’t looking at them, and she had to always look at her hands and fingers to be able to use things. She couldn’t tell what expression her face was making if she wasn’t looking in a mirror (probably leading to some of the most interesting RBF ever).
These may seem more annoying than devastating, but when it comes down to it, any task that you can do without explicitly looking at where your limbs are (cooking, running, shopping, driving, eating, etc.) becomes infinitely harder without proprioception.

Proprioception is more complex than I’ve described it, but hopefully you get a sense of how important it is. Daily life would be nearly unrecognizable without it, yet we take it for granted every day. I’m not saying you should ALWAYS be thinking about how great proprioception is, I’m just saying the next time you find yourself in outer space and you still know where your limbs are, take a moment to be grateful.