I was listening to a philosopher discuss ethics the other day and was intrigued.
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When I say intrigued, I mean maybe more confused because possibly I struggle to apply big ideas with my tiny brain.
I know I shouldn't murder people, or covet they neighbour, and should generally turn the other cheek and all that.
But at times I wrestle with smaller-scale conundrums, like packing up after myself.
The take-home message from this philosopher was that regardless of whether you wrestle with it or not, ethics applies to everything, across all time. But preferably in advance, so you don't bumble through life making the same ethical mistakes.
Like not packing up after yourself.
As my philosophical friend pointed out, just because we can do something doesn't mean we should. And it's true, just because I can pack up after myself, doesn't mean I do.
Similarly just because we can mourn the dearly departed Queen 24/7 for 10 days straight, doesn't mean I'm physically capable, although saturation news coverage suggests we're going to give it a red hot crack in coming days.
And just because you colonise a country a couple of centuries ago, doesn't mean we should mention imperialism this week, nor post insensitive things on social media about republics.
Ethics it seems can be about timing and possibly PR too and obviously it was a different time back then, when people seemed to lack ethics. And the notion of royalty was always going to get complex if we thought about it too much.
Surely the biggest ethical question for Aussie subjects moving forward is whether to throw a sickie next Friday, and if we can, should we should start organising the barbecue now?
My philosopher argues liberty isn't the freedom to say or do what you like, but rather the right to do what you ought. And if you can't tell the difference, take Friday off and follow your conscience into the weekend.
These blurred ethical lines crystallised for me in the garden the other day.
The sun was finally shining after what most good judges would call a shit year of weather, and the surf was up, but the garden needed weeding.
In pure polemic, the garden had exercised it's liberty to run amok during La Nina, and now was the time to curtail its freedom, by curbing mine. Liberty suggested I could go surfing, ethics wondered if I ought?
So too did wise counsel standing across the garden from me with a mattock.
It was crunch time in the octagon of potentially bad decisions. Where ought might end up in autopsy if I didn't weigh options carefully.
I knew the wind of change was soon tipped to blow onshore but the tide of enthusiasm was turning unfavourably on the sandbar of indecision.
This was no allusion to King Chuck III and the troubled waters he may face. More a profound barometer of domestic relations.
Opting to garden wasn't necessarily what I liked, but looking back it certainly felt like what I ought.
