The Complexity In A Single Leaf

I took my dog for a walk on a fine fall day yesterday, and while we shared the journey, we were soon lost in our own worlds. My attention was grabbed by the endless variety of leaves—even in my own neighborhood—all differently exhibiting the effects of a turn to colder weather. Meanwhile my dog was more interested in the smells that lay at the base of the trees, so much so that she often resisted when I tried to urge her onward when she wasn’t finished.

Each tree had a different response to the change of season. Some were already quite bald, while others were still relatively green. Some trees seemed to lose their leaves as if they had contracted a disease, the leaves developing black splotches. Others turned brown at the edges, as if slowly being overcome with rot. Still others turned riotous colors, determined to go down in a blaze of glory. Some trees were dressed in red, others orange, still others a most definite pink, fragile yet angelic like memories of my grandmother.

And then, while indulging my dog in a particularly intense sniffing session, I chanced to gaze upon a single leaf. It contained a black spot, surrounded by brown, edged by orange, then going into red and finally green.

The thought struck me suddenly that there was more complexity within that single leaf than ever I could hope to understand with my intellect. It had a personal history that made it the size it was, had a more recent history which caused it to be the colors it now was. It had a variety of veins bringing nourishment from branches, even as it transformed the sun’s light into energy for the tree. Millions of cells composed of billions of atoms, each placed in their proper position to do their job, each encoded with genetic information distinct to the tree it belongs to.

If my mind was incapable of truly understanding this single leaf, how then was it expected to make sense of the billions of leaves I saw on my walk, not to mention everything else I encountered? How was I expected to know not only a small thing in itself but its relationship to the myriad other pieces of the universe that are constantly interacting and affecting each other?

Then I glanced at my dog, who was still exploring the world around her in her own fashion. She was absorbing information through her nose the way I was with my eyes, in a way I could never hope to understand. She perceived the universe through her dog senses in a way completely different than me, and yet it was enough to permit her to function within it. Her search for information was as important to her as mine was to me, if perhaps a trifle less reflective. Each scent told her something useful, provided her clues that might alert her to potential food or danger. But she, like me, was living in her own little bubble, no more aware of it than most of us are.

I couldn’t help thinking that if there was any lesson to be learned that it was how much we do not know. If we ever hope to be even slightly wise, the most important thing to remember is how lacking our intellects are. Intellectual humility must be our defining guide in life. To be proud of being smarter than another is like a child who brags about having captured more of the ocean’s water than a child with a smaller pal.

Meanwhile my dog continued to sniff, indifferent to my thoughts. I realize that perhaps the nose can tell us more about our world than our thoughts can. A person surrounded by pleasant smells is usually happier than one who is not. I trust my nose far more than my intellect, trust my ability to smell spoiled milk more than I trust the date listed on the container.

But beyond even my sense of smell, beyond the accumulated information my collective senses provide, there is the internal sense of well-being that is more important in explaining to us our relationship to the world. Define it how you will, philosophically, psychologically, or spiritually, there is a way of perceiving the world that leads us to life, health, and happiness that is far superior to the intellect. It is more than time we quiet our intellects and listen attentively to whatever information that sense is providing us.

Magic And Science Part 2

     As I’ve mentioned in my last post, magic is a major theme in the four books I have written. And like yesterday’s post, I hope to be able describe exactly what I mean by magic. At least that is the aim, to attempt once again to point at a target that is allusive and multi-faceted.

     The word magic is simply a label I put on an idea that is a little too abstract for easy understanding. Perhaps religion or spirituality might fit better, but any word is apt to be misunderstood. Please bear with me as I try to explain some of the ideas without getting hung up on the words that are used. As Chuang Tzu said, “The Tao that can be described is not the real Tao.” In other words, don’t worship the statue that represents God, don’t stare at the finger that points at the moon, they are merely ways of getting one to see the unseeable.

     Magic is the ability to cook a perfect steak without knowing the scientific principles involved. It is knowing that certain actions can produce a given result without knowing why. Science is a wonderful thing, no doubt, but so is magic. Jimi Hendrix did not have to know the science behind sound in order to make music.

     Sometimes in searching for explanations we end up killing the magic. Not because truths disprove magic but an insufficient understanding of it does. We never are really able to understand the deeper truths, it is too much for our little minds, but quite often we convince ourselves that we actually do know something. And in believing ourselves capable of understanding in any real sense, we permit our delusions of knowledge to destroy something wonderful.

     Magic is the sizzle of the steak: you could explain it, but why? Magic is elusive and should be. Magic is that thing that resides in the soul of the scientist that makes him question in the first place. It flits at the edge of our consciousness but is never clearly seen.

     Magic does not always jibe with our intellect, and so the intellect attempts to deny it. But if we keep our intellect humble, we can admit something exists without understanding why. After all, if a certain ritual permits a pitcher to pitch a perfect game, or a certain belief enables a forty year old boxer to become the heavyweight champion of the world, who are we to ridicule? It worked! Perhaps the reasoning they used does not fit in with reality as we perceived it, but IT WORKED. And the fact that such beliefs are passed on to others with similar results, it is not unreasonable to assume there is something to it.

     There are truths our intellects will never grasp, the intellect is simply not made for some things. The intellect is akin to a sixth sense, another way for the human animal to perceive the outside world. It is quite good at a great many things, but it has its own blind spots, a great many of them, I would say. Even our sense of smell is better equipped to judge the outside world than our intellect, but the intellect is better at convincing us it is right. Think about it, if something does not seem right but our mind cannot find a reason against it, we say that “something smells rotten” or “it doesn’t pass the smell test”. And if we allow our reason to veto what our nose is telling us, we usually end up paying the price for it. For one day, abandon reason for scent and see if it does not make you happier. And in experiencing the world without believing you understand it, then perhaps you will gain some appreciation of what I allude to when I use the word magic. It is something not to be understood, merely experienced. And in experience, you will find understanding deeper and truer than anything the human intellect can ever hope to attain.