We Are Alone

Early spring reminds us we remain creatures of which mind is only a part.

• Internet, science fiction, reputable scientific journals, popular magazines and even religious works speculate on the search for life and intelligence in the universe.  “There are nearly infinite stars, so somewhere there must be intelligence to match ours.”  Physical studies, exotic instruments, philosophical essays all point to the inevitability of little green folks, if we can just find them.
• Sensible thoughts.  I think they are wrong.  We are probably alone.
• “Nearly infinite” is not infinite.  Lots and lots of stars do not mean anything can be happening somewhere.  Even multiple bubble universes would not be truly infinite.  Mathematically, it does not “stand to reason” that there must be other intelligence like ours. The odds against may be greater than the “nearly infinite” stars available.

Daffodils inspire poems and sprinkle joy on the landscape.

• Life itself is improbable and requires significant conditions, like developing radiation resistance and the ATP energy cycle.  But even granting that life arises easily and everywhere, there is no definitive path to intelligence.  The earth itself is 4.5 billion years old, and 3.8 years ago life probably began here.  Single-celled organisms arose at 3.5.  And then, for almost 3 billion years, nothing really happened _ it was all single-celled organisms with this and that peculiarity.  And remember that years are only meaningful to us _ single celled organisms move at lightning pace measured in seconds or minutes rather than years.
• So the rise of multi-celled organisms might be much more unlikely than “life itself.”  And special factors like our moon may make it even more unusual.  Not until .5 billion years ago are there animals with backbones.  .25 billion years ago almost everything is wiped out in the Permian Extinction,  which may have been a trigger for rapid evolution. Consider that:  4.25 billion out of 4.5 just fiddling around, then almost starting over (which may have been required for intelligence).
• Darwinian evolution promises nothing beyond survival and reproduction honed to the environment.  Not until 20 million (.02 billion) years ago do primitive hominids show up.   An improbably varied ice age was required to generate homo sapiens at (earliest) 350K. 
• In the last 40 thousand years we conquered the world.  In the last 10K or so we developed technological prowess.  In the last 200 (.00000002 B) we have electricity.  Pretty long odds right there. 
• An awful lot of stars would need an awful lot of luck to come close.

A few wild violets break the monotony of burgeoning emerald carpets

• In the short life of our species, most cultures have populated their cosmos with similar but not quite identical spirits, gods, and beings.  No doubt we are hard-wired to look for cause and effect, inventing magic when we cannot find anything obvious.  Since we increasingly understand our “mundane” reality, projections have moved farther away.
• There is, I suppose, no harm in looking outward and imagining strange intelligences somewhere.  On the other hand, you might stare with a clearer eye at your mate, neighbor, coworker, or celebrity to find that genuine alien intelligence is not at all that hard to find.

Morning Prayers

First bright spring flowers break the monotony of brown leaves and old hickory nut shells.

• As a lifetime “morning person,” I treasure unblemished early hours.  I am increasingly grateful simply to wake up, to find myself able to move and (eventually) to think.  Early sun as spring turns to summer enhances my jubilant mood.  Stepping outside to hear birds and wind, smell flowers, view crystalline scenes is wonderful even if it happens to be raining.
• Increasingly, I realize I know nothing about the true meaning of reality or being.  So I simply give thanks for another experience, amazed at the miracle of consciousness.  Little things _ familiar or not _ impress me.  I am comforted by routine, but often adventurous enough to stare closely at a daffodil or closely observe as squirrels steal bird food.

-

Sometimes beauty comes wrapped in scent,  much less prevalent now that hybridized flowers are primarily grown for display.

• Unlike some of my peers, I relish losing control.  The future is way beyond my grasp, the present is only held together with spit and baling wire, the past is gone and all I can do (which is a lot) is to forget the bad and remember the good.  When it all ends, as it must, does not much frighten me.  I’ve had a good run.  I have some chores to accomplish, but nothing to shake the world.
• But morning still allows plans at least for this day.  Where shall I go, what shall I eat, who should I contact.  In fact, I remember well how hard I laughed as a young person that the only thing elders ever seemed to do was worry about their next meal.  Not laughing so much any more.  I do not envy those making long-term plans, and I pity those who try to manipulate the universe from beyond their graves.

-

Daffodils are dramatic enough even without late afternoon light effects.  For many of us, these are the happiest blooms of spring.

• Morning is bright and cheerful and filled with promise.  Aches and tiredness are not yet manifest, the residual issues of yesterday can be put off for another hour or so.  I slowly sip coffee and enjoy absolute peace and quiet, before the inevitable cacophony of modern industry begins to shake the house, fill the atmosphere with harsh noise, and obscure the hills with the dust of “progress.”

Birthday Blues

Generating its own heat, skunk cabbage remains reliably in sync with my calendar expectations.

• Septuagenarian birthdays are naturally contradictory.  As I enter 72, I am extremely grateful for all that I have, my health, my stability, my family, my history, an infinite list of blessings on the scroll of life.  Yet each year, sometimes subtly, sometimes with loud gongs, I am less than I was.  I have never been one to pretend, and today I am much less energetic and focused than even a short decade ago.
• People tell me not to worry about it.  After all, most of our political leaders, many of our industrial leaders, a lot of our cultural leaders are my age.  Aren’t they doing just fine.  Well, no, actually.  A culture headed by geriatrics frightens me. 

Tiny bits of green grace this hidden woodland, otherwise a wintry view.

• I am in most ways more free than I have ever been.  My responsibilities have grown up and moved into their own lives, my only ambitions for our house is that it not fall down on us for a decade or so.  I spend time sitting, and talking, and puttering around, and am very happy.
• But I am going nowhere.  I am as free as a tree rather than as a bird.  Nothing wrong with contemplation and remembrance and gratitude, I tell myself.  Even if I am doing those things more because I tire easily and ache afterwards than for any noble reason. 

Pussy willows have moved right along their inexorable path, unnoticed by rushing traffic.

• Well, the adage goes, consider the alternatives.  Oh, I do.  Because they loom over the next day, or next month, or next season, or next birthday.  It is hard to escape wondering if each twinge or momentary pang is not a signifier of something worse.  Over 70, I think a lot of people become natural hypochondriacs, often with reason.
• Spring cures a lot.  At least for a while everything is full of energy and beauty and it is easy to feel rejuvenated with the rest of nature.  Having a birthday near the beginning of April is nice.  All I need to learn is to simply accept cycles and changes as do the daffodils and crocuses and arriving robins, and frolicking squirrels.  Just another bit of life on a magnificent planet.