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Imagine nothing. Got it? Now, imagine that not even nothing exists.  For after all, nothing is something. At the very least “nothing” implies its opposite, and I’m asking you to imagine a time before opposites are even possible, before time is possible. 

Then, imagine a point, the way geometry defines a point, with no dimensions. This point is something. But it can exist for only a billion-trillionth of a second — although a second is something that doesn’t really exist yet. The word “yet” implies that a future does exist, however, and in that infinitesimal fraction of eternity the point — which is everything that exists or ever will exist — physicists tell us that the point “expanded,” although that word cannot adequately express the explosion. In fact, the universe ejaculated into both something and nothing. It gave rise to particles and antiparticles and we were off to the races.

Chaos 1

It is important to note that the “point” did not expand into a great big empty nothingness but rather something and nothing together expanded — and they keep expanding, even as we sit sipping our tea and watching Big Bang Theory in endless reruns on TV. There is math to show this, but you wouldn’t understand it. I certainly don’t. It’s complicated. 

“Alice laughed. ‘There’s no use trying,’ she said. ‘One can’t believe impossible things.’

“‘I daresay you haven’t had much practice,’ said the Queen. ‘When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’”

As it says in the Tao Te Ching, “Thus something and nothing produce each other.”

Now, it is 13.799 billion years later, and the universe is still expanding, ever faster and faster. And we are riding on one meager little mote in that great soup, called the planet Earth. It is something. Now, “nothing” is what exists between the bits of “something.”

That is our Creation Myth. 

By calling it a myth, I am not implying it is not true, or not factual. Myth does not mean something is untrue, but means it is our way of comprehending what is beyond our actual understanding. 

Myth is our explanation to ourselves of something. It may be factual, it may be fantastical. It may be taken literally or it may be understood as metaphor. Either way, it is an approach to the comprehension of something too complex to be held in the mind any other way. 

Chaos 2

A physicist may be able to put the math together and parse out the myth in non-mythic terms (I use the word “may” advisedly), but for the rest of us, we take it on faith that our creation myth is scientifically verifiable and therefore, factual. It is the myth we believe in, i.e., the story we take as true. (That it is true is irrelevant to its function as myth). 

We mistakenly tend to look on myth as something from the past: Zeus or Achilles, or Odin, or Indra fighting Vritra, or Quetzalcoatl, or the Chinese dragon. It is something we condescend to, having learned better. We know that thunder isn’t clouds crashing together. But such an attitude misunderstands myth and its function. We all live by myth, even now. 

Chaos 3

There are things we do not or cannot understand. Either too complicated to grasp or just plain unknowable. We need a metaphor to help us come to grips with such things. Language cannot describe such things with the precision of a dictionary, but rather it has to fall back on not “what it is,” but “what is it like.” We tell a story.

The Big Bang is our story. When we assume our superiority, we fail to understand that for most of us, we are relying on the argument from authority no less than the Middle Ages did. We must accept that the physicist knows what we merely accept. (I am making the assumption that a physicist has a more complete understanding than even an educated lay person).

And since we cannot know every corner of relativity or quantum mechanics, we simplify it all into a comprehensible story. The Big Bang. 

Chaos 4

I am not claiming what science has parsed out is false, but that our understanding as non-scientists is a mythological understanding, not a literal one. And for that matter, I doubt any scientist is equally conversant in all aspects of the field — relativity, quantum theory, the math and the particle physics. Perhaps he or she has a good grasp on black holes, but how much has he or she published on quarks with spin? Specialization is necessary for modern science, and even a scientist has to rely on and trust the work of others. 

And it is important to remember that not all scientists agree. The popular version of the Big Bang is certainly wrong, or at the very least wildly simplified. New theories are always coming forth. No version is entirely consistent and coherent, not even the Bible’s. 

Chaos 5

All of which takes me off point: Creation myth. There are so many of them, from the Chinese cosmic egg to the Mesopotamian butchery of the sea goddess Tiamat. The one we in the West are most familiar with is that of Genesis. 

“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light.”

We are so used to the organ tones of the King James translation that sometimes putting it into modern English takes away some of the majesty. 

“When God began creating the sky and earth, the earth was formless and empty.”

Chaos 6

There are many believers who take this story literally, just as most of us take the Big Bang. For most of us, the Bible story is a story. So, if we had to stake our lives on it, we would more likely defend physics — even if we were Christian believers — and accept that ancient Middle-Eastern poetry is just that. The King James Genesis is transcendent poetry. But so is our story of the Big Bang.  

“Mythology opens the world so that it becomes transparent to something that is beyond speech, beyond words, in short, to what we call transcendence,” said scholar Joseph Campbell.

“The energies of the universe, the energies of life, that come up in the sub-atomic particle displays that science shows us, are operative. They come and go. Where do they come from? Where do they go? Is there a where?”

Which returns us to the Big Bang. 

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Physicist Paul Dirac in 1930 imagined a where: Now called the “Dirac Sea,” it is an infinite or unnumbered source of subatomic particles that exist “beneath” our visible world. An electron may pop up anywhere, as quantum physics has shown, and may disappear also. Where they come from, where they go is the Dirac Sea. Using the nautical term is another case of mythology making familiar what cannot be grasped otherwise. 

Imagine a billiard table, he said, completely covered in balls, leaving no room. Place another ball on top and it sits there, on top of the rest. But push it down and that forces another ball to pop up elsewhere. We cannot predict where. The one above the rest is the one we see and measure, the rest, below, are the “Dirac Sea,” unavailable for study in the visible universe. 

Yes, it’s a story. Most of us would run screaming from the math involved in a more proper explanation. 

Chaos 8

“The ultimate ground of being transcends definition, transcends our knowledge,” said Campbell. “When you begin to ask about ultimates, you are asking about something that transcends all the categories of thought, the categories of being and non-being. True, false; these are, as Kant points out in The Critique of Pure Reason, functions of our mode of experience. And all life has to come to us through the esthetic forms of time and space, and the logical ones of the categories of logic, so we think within that frame,” he wrote.

“But what is beyond? Even the word beyond suggests a category of thought. So transcendence is literally transcendent.”

Chaos 9

Vedic mythology has many creation stories, but the one most widely seen has the Brahman, or the ultimate ground of reality, as the source of all. However as it says in the Upanishads, the Brahman is just a word, and already it is a distortion of the ultimate, which is beyond words, beyond category, beyond comprehension.

True “of all knowledge,” Campbell said, that is beyond comprehension. “In the Kena Upanishad, written back in the seventh century BC, it says very clearly, ‘that to which words and thoughts do not reach.’ The tongue has never soiled it with a name. That’s what transcendent means. And the mythological image is always pointing toward transcendence and giving you the sense of riding on this mystery.”

Pillars of Creation

So, we look at the Hubble image of a portion of the Eagle Nebula and have named it “The Pillars of Creation.” It is a transcendent image, and fills most of us with genuine awe. But of course, it is a photograph in false color: It would not look that way if seen by a human eye through a telescope. It is a myth. Again, I am not saying it is not true — even the false color is true in its way — it provides a way to see wavelengths that cannot register in a human eye, but are there nonetheless.

But let us go back again to that bit before “something” and before “nothing” — those pairs of opposites. 

In many recorded myths, before anything, there was Chaos. We should not be fooled by modern science’s version of Chaos Theory. In that, chaos is just something so complex it cannot be predicted by mathematical formula. But mythological Chaos is something else again: It is to order what eternity is to time — which is not simply forever, but rather outside of time altogether. 

Likewise Chaos in myth is not a lack of order, but something outside the very idea of order. It is before the organization of “categories of thought,” and cannot be described either in words or algebra. 

Chaos 10

The word comes from the Greek χάος meaning “emptiness, vast void, chasm, abyss,” related to the verbs χάσκω and χαίνω “gape, be wide open,” from Proto-Indo-European cognate that gives rise, millennia later, to the English “yawn.”

In Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound, the Spirit of the Hour talks about “The loftiest star of unascended heaven,/ Pinnacled dim in the intense inane.” And here the poet’s unfortunate word choice doesn’t mean insipidity, but rather translates from the Latin word inanis, which meant “empty,” or “void.” And so I like to think of chaos as an intense emptiness. 

Chaos 11

My favorite Creation myth is found in the opening of Ovid’s Metamorphoses: “Before the sea was, and the lands, and the sky that hangs over all, the face of Nature showed alike in her whole round, which state have men called chaos: a rough unordered mass of things, nothing at all save lifeless bulk and warring seeds of ill-matched elements heaped in one.” 

In his De Rerum Natura (“On  the Nature of Things”), the Roman writer Lucretius (ca. 99-55 BC) comes very close to both modern astrophysics and to quantum mechanics, although told in mythic terms rather than mathematical formula. 

Chaos 12

For Lucretius, the universe has always existed. Nothing can be created from nothing, he wrote, nor can it be destroyed — anticipating the conservation of matter and energy. But the universe originally was an undifferentiated mass of atoms, all traveling in straight lines, he wrote — anticipating Newton’s First Law of Motion — but oddly the atoms had an irrational  tendency to “swerve.” This unaccounted divergence of the atoms’ direction led them to bump into each other, to make concentrations of matter in some localities and voids of matter in others — very like the astrophysicists’ explanation of how the cooling of the Big Bang led to unequal distribution of matter in the early universe through gravity and density fluctuations. 

Map of cosmic background microwave radiation

We have an image of this in the map of the cosmic microwave background radiation, discovered by accident in 1965, which supported the Big Bang theory — and Lucretius — with actual data. The two scientists who found this at first thought the data was “noise” in the signal caused by pigeons nesting in the Holmdel Horn Antenna, in New Jersey, where they did their work. Turned out, no, it was evidence of the universe before condensing into protons and electrons. 

And so, the Big Bang is now part of the wider public’s sense of where the universe came from. Physicists and cosmologists worry over the many corners that don’t neatly fit, and reams of arcane mathematical formulae are published to support one idea or another. Standard model relativity doesn’t fit, tab-into-slot, with quantum mechanics, and scientists scratch their heads and try new ideas. And they sometimes torture the English language with things like “temperature inhomogeneities,” and torture math with paragraph-long formulas with no actual numbers in them. Looks good on a white board, but it’s Greek to me. 

Someday a newer common myth will be created to refine or supplant the version of Big Bang that the educated laymen currently accept. Again, it doesn’t mean the myth isn’t true, but that it is a story that attempts to make the unexplainable facts comprehensible to the puny human mind, which evolved, after all, when we were still banging rocks together. Sometimes it’s like watching a monkey trying to open a jar of pickles. 

In addition to this blog, which I have been writing since 2012, I have written a monthly essay for the Spirit of the Senses salon group in Phoenix, Ariz., since 2015. The readership for each site seems to have little overlap, and so, I thought if I might repost some of the Spirit essays on my own blog, it might achieve a wider readership. This one, originally from July 1, 2022, is now updated and slightly rewritten. 

The world is fuzzy. I am constantly reminded of the fact that when looked at with any concentration, what might have seemed sharply focused, is, in fact, quite blurred. 

No matter how precise we try to make our language, there is always a nimbus of ambiguity clouding our meaning. What we mean by a word, and what our hearer means is only explainable in a Venn diagram. Some overlap, much personal and distinct. 

We keep trying to clarify our thought, to make it more precise, to nail down just exactly what we mean, but that whittled edge always seems to elude us and we are left with “sort of” and “it’s like …” 

What I’ve come to understand is that it has to be that way, and that meaning and communication can only happen in that aura of mist and glimpse.  

We try to sort out our reality with definitions and categories, but, so much is simply uncategorizable, and definitions are often murky.

I was re-reading my Lucretius, an epic poem about science written in Latin in the First Century B.C. De Rerum Naturae  (“On the Nature of Things”) is some 7,000 verses long, divided into six books and explains the universe in surprisingly modern detail. Lucretius was an Epicurean, and spends a portion of his book explaining atomic theory. If you allow for the use of metaphorical thinking instead of mathematics, and allow for guesswork to replace the subsequent 2,000 years of scientific advance, the poem can often stun you with its prescience. 

Yet, is De Rerum really science? Or is it poetry? Like a good epic poem, it begins with an invocation to a goddess. But like science, it spends its time discussing being and nothingness, matter and space, the atoms and their movement, the infinity of the universe, time and space. But then again, it’s in verse. 

So, was Lucretius a poet? A scientist? A philosopher? I need an optometrist: It’s all gone fuzzy. 

This uncertainty is constant in our intellectual lives. Is light a wave or a particle? Is Beethoven a Classical composer, like Mozart, or a Romantic, like Wagner? A case can be made either way. When did the Renaissance begin? Was Camus an Existentialist or an Absurdist? When and where, exactly did Latin turn into French, Spanish and Romanian? We tend to think of all these categories as discrete, yet, when looked at, they blur out. Can a Londoner really understand a Yorkshireman? They both speak what is called English, but evidence says Londoners are as confused by northern language as Americans are. We all need subtitles. 

Language divides things up so we may talk about them. Cats are one one side, dogs on the other. Mammals on one side, reptiles, birds, and fish on the other. Animals are on one side, vegetables and minerals sit on the other side of the room. Divide, divide. Name, name. 

But anyone who has ever tried to re-organize their homes or office has run into the problem: Here are letters; divide them into piles. Business letters, personal letters, old letters, current letters, personal letters discussing business, business letters with a personal P.S. added. Letters to you, letters to your wife, letters addressed to both. How many piles do you make? The biggest file by far can only be those uncertain of classification — and maybe next time you go through them, you can decide. In other words, the biggest pile is “miscellaneous.”

As the obscure philosopher Anne Burnette said, “The world has miscellaneous built into it.” 

The same if you organize books. Fiction, non-fiction. But where on its best-seller list should The New York Times have put Edmund Morris’ Dutch, a semi-fictionalized biography of Ronald Reagan? Is poetry fiction or non-fiction? Is Lucretius science or literature? In the end, you wind up subdividing your categories so finely, that perhaps each volume gets its own subcategory. How is that different from chaos? 

The New York Times now prints 11 weekly lists of best-sellers, all subdivided: Combined Print & E-Book Fiction; Combined Print & E-Book Nonfiction; Hardcover Fiction; Hardcover Nonfiction; Paperback Trade Fiction; Paperback Nonfiction; Advice, How-To & Miscellaneous; Children’s Middle-Grade Hardcover; Children’s Picture Books; Children’s Series, Young Adult Hardcover. And that’s not counting the monthly lists: Audio Fiction; Audio Nonfiction; Business Graphic Books; Mass Market; Middle Grade Paperback; and Young Adult Paperback. 

Burnette says, organize your books by color. It’s as good as anything else. Even the Dewey Decimal System has “miscellaneous” built into it and the Library of Congress organization actually begins with it, called “General Works.” 

Just talking with each other and trying to communicate requires fuzziness and imprecision. Trying to be too precise only invites misunderstanding. Total order and total chaos are, after all, identical.

I was once playing with my brother’s dog and thinking about scientific nomenclature. How should I classify Roxanne? She had a very distinct personality. A one-in-a-million springer spaniel, for sure. Science does it with a hierarchical layering of categories. Once we separate animals out from everything else, we then divide them up into phylum, class, order, family, genus, species. A dog, for instance is phylum chordate; class mammal; order, carnivore; family, canid; genus, Canis; species, familiaris. We usually only use the last two for identification: Canis familiaris

But even the category “dog” can be subdivided into breed: schnauzer; doberman; chihuahua. Breeds get broken down, too: water spaniel; springer spaniel; cocker spaniel Indeed, the nomenclature is constantly being subdivided into sub-phylum, sub-order, etc. Taxonomists are fervid with smaller and smaller divisions. Family is subdivided into sub-family, tribe and sub-tribe; there are subgenera and subspecies. 

But these categories are sometimes squishy. Not every taxonomist agrees, and the labels can change over time. And so they can’t be satisfied with one rank, but often try to find distinctions within genera so they may create new ones. In times past, for instance, a lion was classified as “Felis leo,” that is a cat of the lion species; But no, that wasn’t enough. It was noticed that cats come in two varieties: Small and large — i.e., those that can purr and those that can’t. And so, Felis was divided into Felis and Panthera and lions became Panthera leo

 

But even that wasn’t enough for some taxonomists, who found enough difference between tigers, leopards, on one hand — and lions on the other, to create yet a new genus: Leo, held solely for our leonine brethren, and so, it became Leo leo. But there were African lions — Leo leo leo — and the subspecies of Asiatic lions — Leo leo persica. Enough already. Indeed some taxonomists have gone back to using Panthera. And the Indian lions have been relumped back into Panthera leo. Not all zoologists agree, and if you visit different zoos, you will find different labels attached to cages, depending on who is choosing the name (and also how often zoo officials update their signage). 

To take the whole enterprise to absurdity, that dog we were discussing can be so roundly classified as to prove the meaninglessness of the attempt to do so. We classify in an attempt to make order of chaos. But the more we subdivide, the more chaotic we make things. Your dog is not only separated out as a chordate mammal carnivore canid of the familiaris species, but also of the breed spaniel, the kind springer spaniel (they come in multiple colors), and the individual name, Roxanne. Every dog can be thus subdivided down to its individual name, meaning that at the end of the most precise descriptions, there are as many categories as there are things in the cosmos — in other words, chaos. 

In other words, the more precise a word is, the less it describes, and perfectly precise language is functionally meaningless. Meaning depends on fuzziness. “Dog” is ambiguous, but we all know what is meant, more or less. “Roxanne” has only meaning to those who know that particular dog. 

And so, fuzzy is good. Precision is a phantom. Fuzziness helps us communicate, creates a wider field of shared experience. 

But I’m using language only as an exemplum. Fuzziness is characteristic of the world in general, and is a necessary, or at least helpful ally in negotiating it. 

Like an Impressionist painting, which can actually look more real than the finely detailed and finicky painting of the Renaissance and Baroque. The fuzzier river reflections in the Impressionist painting are almost photographic compared with the sharply detailed but unrealistic reflections in the older painting.

(And where exactly does the Baroque shade into the Rococo? Or the Romantic Age become the Victorian? Where did Modernity begin? With Picasso or Einstein? With the Crimean War? With Napoleon? With the Enlightenment? With the Renaissance? With Rome? With Egypt? With agriculture? History is always fuzzier than our outlining of it.)

Where do you, as a person, begin and end? It would seem that one’s skin is the border between self and not-self. But proprioception can create a different self: Amputees can “feel” their selves extend into phantom limbs. And for most, if you are driving a car, say, your sense of selfness can extend to the limits of the car — you become one thing operating on the streets, like man and horse becoming centaur. You can back into a parking space because you have a proprioceptive sense of how far you and your automobile extend into space. 

And you can feel uncomfortable if someone invades your personal space. So, where does the self end? 

National borders and identities have the same issues. When Winston Churchill wrote his books, he titled them History of the English Speaking Peoples, because he couldn’t draw a line around England without extending it to Scotland and Wales, and then the United States and Canada, and then, what about Australia and New Zealand? 

National borders keep shifting. Poland has appeared and disappeared many times over history. In the 20th Century alone, it disappeared and reappeared twice, and after World War II, the entire country picked up its skirts and skidded west by roughly 200 miles, ceding part of its former self to the U.S.S.R. and taking in turn a chunk of what was used to be eastern Germany. 

We are watching borders shift constantly. Where will Ukraine be two years from now? South Sudan popped into existence; Yugoslavia evaporated.

We think of the world in nouns, as if it were static, but truly it is all verb, and the constant motion blurs every outline.