Monthly Archives: January 2026

Making Sense

A few years ago, I wrote about a favourite high school English teacher who challenged us one day to make sense of the following sentence he’d written on the chalkboard: It was and I said not but.

It took me a while, but by adding proper punctuation, I was able to solve his riddle: “It was ‘and’,” I said, “not ‘but’.”

But that was a long time ago, as you might have reckoned, given the chalkboard reference. Making sense of situations today, however, especially when they so often seem totally out of whack, requires a modicum of common sense, comprehensive and comprehendible rules, a set of transferable skills, and the discipline to apply them.

Common sense, it seems to me, is an amalgam of accrued wisdom derived from both successes and failures—our own, from which we can learn immediately, and those of people before us, from which we can learn vicariously. Despite being labelled common sense, it can imply different things to different people.

For instance, jogging across a busy street, dodging traffic, might seem like common sense to a person who is not willing to walk further to a crosswalk, whereas another person might believe the common sense approach is to cross in safety at the crosswalk. Ironically then, common sense can be individualistic, although it does fall within a broad range. For example, no one I know would consider it common sense to race an onrushing freight train to the level crossing.

Common sense helps us make sense of our world.

The rules I mentioned—social, cultural, and legal—are learned at home, at school, in the neighbourhood, in the workplace, and in the broader community. Some are hard and fast, others optional; some are social customs, others merely personal affectations. Some bestow favourable consequences upon those who follow them, others impose dire punishment for scofflaws who violate them. And there are others, too, that seem almost whimsical or frivolous, which can be adhered to or ignored as one sees fit.

But it’s those rules that inform us, that guide us, as we wend our way through our workaday lives. Without the semblance of order the rules bring, life would be chaotic, anarchic. Imagine that same busy street without traffic lights, or that railway crossing without flashing lights and barriers. Rules, which some people consider constricting, are what free us to exist in relative safety; they guarantee the welfare of our community as a whole.

Comprehensive, comprehendible rules help us make sense of our world.

Skills have long been part of our toolbox, from ancient times right up to now. But transferable skills are more necessary than ever before if one is to succeed in navigating the perils and pitfalls of modern life. Once upon a time, a person might learn the skills of a smithy, a clockmaker, an apothecary, a harvester, and stay in that role for a lifetime. It was even possible to eke out an existence with no discernible skills at all, save the willingness to perform menial labour.

Our modern world requires more than that of most of us, although across the planet, many are unfortunately unable to acquire even the most rudimentary skills. It is safe to say, I think, that the more skilled we are, and the more skills there are in our toolbox to draw upon, the more success we will have in coping with the complexities of the increasingly bewildering world we inhabit. Both in school and in the workplace, it is incumbent upon society to provide people with opportunities to train and retrain in the skills they will need,

Transferable skills help us make sense of our world.

Discipline can mean many things, among which the dictionary lists: training or conditions imposed for the improvement of physical powers and self-control; systematic training in obedience to commonly agreed-upon behavioural rules; improved behaviour resulting from such training; punishment or chastisement; and finally, a branch of learning or instruction.

The discipline I referred to at the beginning has to do with requiring of oneself the determination to apply common sense to situations one encounters, to abide by the common rules of society, to acquire and practice the skills needed to do all that. But without self-discipline, none of those others can have much effect.  

But where does it come from, this self-discipline? Is it inherent, part of us from the moment of birth? Is it acquired? And if so, how? From whom? The nature/nurture dialogue speaks to these questions, and I (admittedly not a behavioural scientist) suspect the answer lies more on the nurture side. I favour that conclusion because a good part of my life was spent observing and interacting with children along a broad spectrum of development.

Along the way, I encountered many children who were rarely or never exposed to discipline (and I don’t mean punishment, which is reactive; by discipline, I mean a proactive modelling by parents and caregivers of restraint and consideration for others, which, if effective, will greatly reduce the need for punishment). I suspect the incidence of such cases is higher today than when I was involved.

It’s well-established that most self-disciplined people enjoy a healthy self-image. And a healthy self-image is based, at least in part, on accomplishment, on achievement. Success begets success, even from an early age. The formative years, from birth to about four, are critical to a child’s brain development and social growth, and a disciplined, supportive home environment contributes greatly to that.

Children learn through play, through discovery, through guided instruction, and in all those modes, it’s vitally important that they understand there are expectations for them, expectations in keeping with common sense and the rules that govern our coexistence. Children who are given the opportunity to rise to these expectations, and who succeed, gain a sense of self-worth. Children who are unsuccessful at first, if given more opportunities, will also respond favourably. It is only from those of whom nothing is expected that nothing will be attained.

Children left to their own devices (figuratively and literally) will, by default, have less chance of assimilating and integrating the sense of discipline they will need as they grow into adulthood. And that will severely disadvantage them as they try to make their way—to learn common sense, to learn the rules, to acquire the needed skills.

Self-discipline helps us make sense of the world.

And really, what more can we ask as we try to cope with this messy, random, tumultuous world we inhabit than the wherewithal to make sense of it all? As a species, we constantly seek order, clarity, certainty, predictability—conditions that are too often in scarce supply. Summoning order from the chaos is essential to our survival.

That’s just common sense.

Facts Matter

Words matter. The fact I declare this should come as no surprise, since I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember.

Opinions matter, too. But they’re meaningful only if they’ve been subjected to a rigorous examination of their validity before being uttered. Otherwise, they’re merely pointless, irrelevant noise, adding nothing of substance to any conversation.

Persuasion also matters. How convincingly we present our opinions goes a long way in influencing those who hear and read them. Logic, structure, and sincerity bolster the likelihood that they will be well-received.

Most importantly, facts matter. The truth. Without accurate information, nothing we utter can add value to general discourse. Absent validated facts, the things we say and write can distort a conversation beyond all salvation. Misinformation—and worse, disinformation—are fatal to an honest exchange of views.

“But what is truth?” some will ask. “How do you know what the true facts are?”

My best answer is that truth is, to paraphrase Hemingway, a movable feast. Not movable in the sense of being deceitful or misleading to accommodate or justify a preconceived situation or viewpoint, but in the sense of being open to new discoveries that advance it beyond what is presently known.

For example, before the discovery of insulin in 1921, it was true that diabetes was an oft-fatal condition. Following that discovery, a significant advancement in medical knowledge, a more perfect truth was established, and sufferers began to live longer and healthier lives.

Any truth is established through a process that generally includes observation, questioning, hypothesis, testing, and conclusion. But given the transitory nature of truth in an evolving universe, every conclusion is itself subject to further observation, questioning, and so forth, until a more plausible definition is found. And this cycle, the scientific method, is endless.

Occasionally, special-interest groups will attempt to misrepresent generally-accepted truths by substituting non-scientific alternatives that have met none of these standards. They often base their claims on ‘alternative facts’. But at any given time, for any given subject, there is only one set of facts. And there is a difference between truths that no longer hold, that have been superseded in the face of newfound evidence, and outright falsehoods proclaimed by those who would deny proven truths for reasons of their own. Mendacity is not truth.

Mind you, all of us have reasons of our own for thinking or believing things we hold dear. I value different thoughts and beliefs now than I did in my youth, but they are undoubtedly more considered and tested than those earlier ones.  

One of my favourite songs, made famous by Mary Hopkins, contains the lines: …we’d live the life we choose, we’d fight and never lose, for we were young and sure to have our way. But over time, I learned that we didn’t always have our way, and that many of the truths we espoused back then subsequently proved to be flawed.

The critical essence of facts, of truth, is that they are forever subject to scrutiny, that they must be evidence-based, that they are constantly in a state of flux as new discoveries come to light. Deliberate falsehoods are bound by none of those.

As a little boy, I believed the sun ‘came up’ in the morning because the rooster crowed, and ‘went down’ at night so I could go to sleep. That was how it appeared to me, and that is how those events were described by those around me. I eventually discovered the truth of the matter, but at the time I would have sworn upon my mother’s life that my childish perception was the truth.

“Is that really what you think?” a scornful, unkind friend could have asked me (although none did).

And I would have exclaimed, “I don’t think! I know!”

To which my friend could have replied, “I don’t think you know, either!” And he would have been right. I only thought I knew the truth.

This fictional anecdote points out a problem that can arise when we declare we think or believe something, and then, because we’ve declared it, assume it to be true, to be factual. If I think it rained because I had just washed my car, that does not make it the reason. Because I believe it’s bad luck to walk under a ladder or break a mirror does not make either of those things true.

One of the best pieces of advice I ever came across was: Don’t believe everything you think. And I try not to, although it is sometimes hard.

In politics, when one tries to ascertain the reason why certain things happen while others do not, there is a cynical piece of advice: follow the money.

In life, as one tries to discern the facts—the truth of any matter—my advice is to follow the evidence. Think critically, identify credible sources of information, and consider that information rationally. Words matter. Opinions matter. Persuasion matters. But above all, facts matter if we are to know the truth.

And the truth shall make us…well, you know.