The Variable That Changed Everything

There’s a before and after. Before, I taught ethics as if it were a museum exhibit—something to be admired from a distance, not lived. For thirty-five years, I’d dissect moral dilemmas in lecture halls, quoting Aristotle and Kant while my own life blurred into a rush of deadlines and unread books. I’d walk past the blooming magnolia in my campus courtyard without seeing it, my mind already drafting tomorrow’s syllabus. The variable I’d overlooked? Attention. The simple, radical act of directing it.

The moment came during a Tuesday lecture. I was explaining Kant’s categorical imperative when Elena, a quiet sophomore, raised her hand. “Professor Bates,” she said, “what does this even mean when you’re late for a bus and your phone’s buzzing?” The room fell quiet. I’d spent years teaching about moral choices, but never in them. I stammered, then realized: the variable wasn’t the theory—it was the attention we gave to the ordinary, messy moment. The philosophers called this “presence,” but I’d never seen it as the hinge of ethics.

Here’s what I’ve been thinking about: Ethics isn’t about grand pronouncements. It’s about whether you notice the rain on the window while waiting for a bus, or if you’re already scrolling through emails. It’s about the weight of a coffee cup in your hand, not just the caffeine. That day, I stopped teaching ethics as a subject and started living it as a practice. I began taking walks without my phone, noticing how the light hit the old oak tree by my house, how the baker’s daughter waved as she locked her door. I stopped asking, “What’s the right choice?” and started asking, “Where is my attention now?”

The shift wasn’t dramatic. I didn’t quit my job or move to a monastery. But I became someone who saw. I’d sit with students after class, not just to discuss theories, but to ask, “What’s one small thing you noticed today?” My lectures grew quieter, more focused on the “how” of living, not just the “what” of thinking. I even started writing notes in the margins of my books: Where was your attention here?

I’m still learning. Some days, I’m lost in thought while making tea. But now I catch myself: Ah, the variable is attention. Not the theory. The noticing. The philosophers called this “the ethical life,” but it’s really just the courage to look up from the map and see the path beneath your feet.

But what does that actually mean for how we live? It means the most profound choices aren’t made in crisis—they’re made in the quiet, ordinary moments we’ve been ignoring.

— Ray Bates, still asking questions

Written by Ray Bates — 12:25, 14 January 2026 (CST)