We’ve Moved!

Hello!

Actually, we moved a while ago, and it’s only recently that I realized I should probably post something saying so.

So, the link:

thethirdwave.wordpress.com

Hope to see you there!

“The Natural Providence” by John Burroughs

“…there is nothing aritificial in Nature.”

– John Burroughs, “The Natural Providence”

This is a fairly interesting article, and if you haven’t read it yet, you might think about giving it a shot. For me, it really helped to put things in perspective, as we to say so often. Furthermore, if you haven’t quite gotten the idea in your head that you’re just a single organism on a single planet orbiting a single star in a single galaxy in a universe and that you’re only going to be around for a single fraction of a second, this might help you in realizing that wonderfully sobering truth.

It may seem cynical, but really, it’s not. It’s the truth, and the sooner we all find beauty in that, the better.

I think this is where Burroughs really helps. On the one hand, he makes sure in the beginning of his article to outline the fact that Nature is Nature: she (or he, it, etc.) is not to be evaluated anthropocentrically, nor are we to evaluate her in any terms but her own. It’s difficult to do so (coming to the conclusion that, say, cows weren’t made so we could eat steaks is a bit more challenging than you think), but in the end, it’s the only way that we’ll ever be able to find truth in this universe.

Burroughs is basically saying that Nature is so grand, the universe so large, that any sort of human tendency to make dualistic or categorical descriptions of those two formerly mentioned is ultimately fallacious. Human terms, which are built out of short and tiny human experiences, cannot begin to describe the realities of Nature and the universe at large.

It sort puts all of the scientific jargon and theories sort of into perspective, doesn’t it? I mean, if we do accept the fact that Burroughs is right about our inability to describe Nature in our personal worldviews, what sort of implications does Burroughs’ thesis (I use the term loosely) have for the seemingly objective “worldview” given to us by science? To what extent is science valuable in describing Nature?

“As far as I have got, or ever hope to get, toward solving the problem of the universe is to see clearly that it is insoluble,” Burroughs states. However, to be fair to the clamoring masses of white lab coats, it seems as if the process by which he was able to get somewhere by his admittance of utter confusing was a philosophic and not scientific one. Though we certainly can’t be sure from this one essay, we can be reasonably sure that Burroughs was not toying with quantum physics and string theory, nor was he pioneering research in genetics. He was a writer and, by necessity, a philosopher.

So could one make the argument that Burroughs falls short of solving the problem because he is using ill-adapted tools? Sure. Could one continue further and make the argument that a scientist equipped with a microscope or a telescope is far better suited for the job of unraveling the mysteries of the universe? Of course. But would they be right? Hmm…suffice it to say, I am not convinced.

But to continue the discussion of Burroughs more precisely, let us leave those questions of epistemology on the wayside, at least for now.

One interesting idea, and perhaps the most interesting idea that he spells out, is that Natural Providence is the action of Infinity in reality. It’s pretty strange, when you really think about it. At first, I sort of just skimmed through the bit where Burroughs introduces the idea of the Infinite. But now, thinking back on it, it’s pretty strange. Burroughs is basically saying that a metaphysical concept is acting in the physical world. How is this possible?

Let’s be clear here: Burroughs could be using the word “Infinite” as a much more glamorous substitute for the word “Time.” And to an extent, he probably is. But I think that he ascribes a sort of holy significance to the Infinite, something beyond the simple continuance of existence. Burroughs really is talking about something that exists in the past, present, and future, a characteristic that cannot be ascribed (at least in my understanding) to time. Time exists in the present, but it has no true existence in the future, nor does it have true existence in the past, just as you and I may well exist now in the present, but are certainly not existing the past and future all at once.

That said, I think a more accurate description of what Burroughs is talking about is Potentiality. What he is essentially saying is that there are innumerable possible futures, and of these, only a few are chosen. However, in many cases, those possible futures contain within them the futures that were neglected. It’s a hard concept to fit your mind around, but in a way, it makes sense.

Think of it this way: if in the future, I choose to have ice cream instead of a cookie, the fact that I chose the ice cream does not preclude the eventual consumption of a cookie in a later future. Similarly, if life had not arisen approximately three and a half billion years ago, that does not mean it could not have arisen two and a half billion years ago (that is, if we ignore the change in initial conditions that led to the rise of life three and a half billion years ago, but would not have been present two and a half billion years ago, etc.).

What I think is interesting about all this is that basically Burroughs is talking about probability. It’s cold hard statistics, in a way. “…in a world of conflicting forces like ours, chance plays an important part; many of the nuts get scattered, and not all devoured.” For Burroughs, it seems as if it all comes down to random luck that we’re here at all, and it may well be so. And to those who would argue that Earth is far too perfect for our existence to be “just chance,” I think Burroughs responds well in saying that “It [Nature] hits its mark because it hits all marks.”

The easy thing to do, now, of course, is to assume that there is meaninglessness. It is a strange phenomenon of human psychology to ascribe meaning with order and meaninglessness with chaos. As to why this is so, that will have to be for another meditation, but it is a compelling idea. Nonetheless, I suppose for some reason, a reason I feel that I am unable to articulate at this point, there isn’t a meaninglessness for me in this chaos, if it is even that. It’s more of a realization that even if it is mere chance, perhaps the existentialists like Camus were right: life’s meaning is the meaning we make for it.

 Bryson Nitta

On “Walking” by Thoreau

I think that Thoreau’s idea s concerning “walking” or “sauntering” are very much like the ideas many have developed concerning the good of an action simply on account of the action itself. There is no goal except the pure enjoyment of being: being both as phenomenal and noumenal existence. Of course, there are incidental pleasures to be had, but these joys seem more superficial and circumstantial than the excitement of simply sauntering.

It’s strange to think that an action can be a noun, a thing, not just a series of moments of change in matter in time. Or maybe it’s not.

I mean, if we think and agree with Thoreau that sauntering presents benefits simply on account of sauntering, what does that say about the innate nature of sauntering?

To go back to the ideas of natura naturata and natura naturans, the noumenal aspect of existence is called natura naturans. In Latin, the word naturans is a participle, or a verbal adjective. This means (and participles function in the same in English, as well) that the word functions both as an adjective (a descriptor, used to say something more specific about a noun) and as a verb (an action, which is to say, change over time).

Similarly, sauntering is a combination of an action and a different part of speech, although this time, it is a gerund. Whereas a participle takes the form of an adjective while retaining traits of a verb, sauntering tales the form of a noun while retaining traits of a verb. Thus, it functions both as a noun (concrete thing or somewhat tangible idea) and as a verb (an action, which again, is a change over time).

But what can we learn from this? We’ve learned that natura naturans is the noumenal, deeper aspect of nature, and we’ve also agreed that Thoreau had somehow experienced a similar noumenal aspect of nature. Can we conclude that there is something about both of these concepts that results in a deeper understanding of nature?

Well, obviously, I think so. If we look at the fact that both share in their nature a changing, verbal aspect even in their use as words, I think the lesson is pretty clear.

From this, we can learn that it is in change and from observing change that we gain our insights into the world. And perhaps it is so because the world itself is change, and most people would agree that no true knowledge may ever be derived from improper places. Thus, our knowledge of nature cannot be had from anything other than progression.

But this leads to some tricky philosophic questions: if all is change, and all knowledge is derived from observing change, is anything absolute? We could say that truth is (considering the fact that we would usually define truth as “that which is real, in existence,” and if existence is not absolute…well, what we couldn’t be here if existence weren’t existing, right?). But, if truth is based in phenomenal and noumenal reality, that is to say, it is based on our observations and feelings towards reality, is truth subject to change, as well? How can truth be changing, but consistent?

I think that nature, and I think some would agree with me (and have probably said this before I have, as well), is more a set of changing patterns than a meaningless spree of clashing pieces. It’s a patterned chaos, that, in a way, reminds me of a kaleidescope. There are set pieces in the kaleidescope (the beads, bits of plastic, etc.) but these pieces are mutated, changed, rearranged, and interact in such myriad ways that the rational, logical mind is utterly overwhelmed with the seemingly infinite possibilities of those interactions.

For another example, look at mathematics. y = sin x. The curve we see is created by that equation (or function, I suppose), or rather, the curve is described by the equation. But the nature of the curve itself is so complex we cannot imagine knowing even a small part of it. Calculus attempts to describe it by portioning it off into pieces, but it ultimately fails, because it would require an infinite number of calculations to describe. The infinite space of that curve renders it mysterious. There is always something more to be known about that curve. And yet, that boundless curve is described in a simple truth: y = sin x.

Similarly with nature. Let us look at evolution. A simple statement or idea, but the complexities of its realitiesare utterly knowable. Perhaps this is why many still cannot come to terms with it: how can so simple an idea describe such immense complexity?

Perhaps this change that we see in natura naturans and in Thoreau’s description of sauntering is best expressed by Gerald Manley Hopkins when he writes:

“…nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness, deep down things;

and though the last lights off the black West went

oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward springs –

because the Holy Ghost over the bent

world broods with warm breast and with ah!, bright wings.”

Well, this entry is getting long enough, and I think it’s just about time I go out and take a walk.

Bryson Nitta

Progressive Foliation

Pretty sweet thing I learned in class today I thought I might share.

Basically, Goethe, the famous German poet, was actually more interested in science than he was in literature. In fact, he even said something that basically meant he thought that it was his scientific work he’d be remembered for, not his poetry. Interesting, right?

Well, his most famous scientific paper was called, “The Metamorphosis of Plants.” In it, he describes how plants, especially flowers, go through a process of expansion and contraction in order to grow.

If you look at a flower (pretty much any flower will do, I think), notice how the leaves look at the bottom of the stem, the middle of the stem, and at the top of the stem. Normally what you see are these large leaves near the roots, and then smaller and smaller leaves as you near the corona of the flower. The smallest “leaves” are right underneath the corona, and are called the sepals. This is an example of a contraction. As you move up from the sepal and reach the corona, there is clearly a large expansion. However, as you move into the center of the flower, and see the pistils and stamens, you’ll notice that the petals of the flower are smaller. This is a contraction. After that, if the flower becomes fertilized, it will grow into a kind of fruit, which is, of course, an expansion. Finally, the fruit is eaten or thrown to the ground, decays, and all this is left is a seed, and this is the final contraction of our flower.

Goethe used this whole process to suggest that each part of the flower, from the leaves to the sepals to the corona to the pistils and stamen to the fruit to the seed, are all generated from each other. He called it “genetics,” but he meant it in the most literal way, as in, from the original Greek, “genesthai,” “to be born.” What Goethe was saying is that each part of a flower is actually a birth of one part from another part, endlessly birthing parts in a constant cycle of birthing.

Of course, this led to something of a problem: what started the birthing? And why do things birth themselves in basically the same way (ie, why do we have species, etc.?). Goethe suggested that all the parts of the flower resemble or contain within them an aspect of something he called the urorgan, which has been translated as “the first organ,” “the primordial organ,” or, “the archetypal organ.”

It’s a very different view than what we are used to. Normally, when we study the anatomy of a flower, we study the parts separately. Leaves provide this for the plant, the corona does that, the stamen and pistil are for something else, and so on. It seems as if we want to treat the flower as a giant machine with a bunch of different parts, as opposed to a unified organism that is living, organic, and changing.

Goethe basically presented the alternative to the kind of science we’re used to, and while it may not be a substitute, I think it’s interesting to think if Goethe’s system couldn’t become somewhat meaningful, if not to the scientific community, than at least to people in their everyday lives.

Bryson Nitta

The Real Truth About Cranes

“…it took a good heart to know the real truth about cranes.”

– Gordon L. Miller, “The Fowls of the Heave and the Fate of the Earth: Assessing the Early Modern Revolution in Natural History”

In my class, “Nature Writing and Environmentalism”, we had to read the article from which I quoted above. The main thesis was pretty simple, but also struck me as profound. By comparing two famous British naturalists, Edward Topsell (1572 -1625) and John Ray (1607 – 1705), Miller suggested that the Scientific Revolution, considered by many to be primarily a movement in the physical sciences (ie, astronomy and physics), also changed the way people viewed the natural sciences (ie, biology and zoology), and thus, altered the way they viewed nature itself.

Interesting enough, right? The argument preceded to take the two naturalists’ zoological works and show how they each treated cranes (those are birds, by the way, not the giant sticks that lift things). Topsell, who published his major works in 1607 and 1608, devoted 14,000 words to describing the birds. He not only described their physical and behavioral characteristics, but also gave the reader a glimpse of what we may call the noumenal aspects of cranes. Basically, in addition to providing what we would call “facts,” Topsell gave stories, lessons, and other various non-scientific (or, at least, what we think of as non-scientific) bits of information about cranes in his account.

Now, compare this to John Ray, who published his “Ornithology” in 1676 (about fifty years after Topsell wrote about cranes). Ray’s description of the creatures is a stark 1,000 words, and only contains information concerning the morphology of cranes, as well as some behavioral patterns. There are no allegories, no stories. It is extremely similar to any field guide a modern dweller could find on the shelves of a bookstore. Strict, scientific, unpoetic.

Why is this distinction important?

Miller suggests that this difference between the two shows a shift in perspectives. Whereas before, in the case of Topsell, humans saw nature as mysterious, symbolic, vital, in the modern era, we have now come to view the Earth and its creatures more in the light of Ray: as machines, products of matter, systematic.

Pretty fascinating stuff, I think. So, let’s take a step back. How does this apply to us right now?

If Miller is right, and the shift from viewing nature as sacred and mysterious to viewing nature as a tool or resource took place during the Scientific Revolution, if he is correct in that many of the ecological and environmental problems we’ve given ourselves are the result of our attitude towards nature, and if Miller is right about all this (and I’m inclined to think he is), then there is a serious problem both within our dominant culture, but maybe even within the scientific community itself.

Now, before I am labeled a hippie who hates all things that aren’t covered in prayer flags and condoms, let me just assure you that I have no qualms with science or scientific rigor, nor do I have a problem with the many blessings the study of nature has given us (I’m typing on a very complex piece of manufactured rock, after all).

What I do have a problem with (and here comes the actual hippie part) is the attitude our culture has towards science. You know how people always look back on the Catholic Church during the Middle Ages and say, “Good Lord! How could those people have trusted so much in these priests? How could they have really let those silly men control so much of their lives?” I think that when we ask those sorts of questions, it’s more our disbelief that people of that age would let so much of their world view be shaped by one group of professionals, instead of taking into account the other systems of thought floating about them. It’s the practice of letting one ideology, one set system, define the way you choose to live your life that we abhor, not the ideology itself.

I think that most people would agree that monopolies are never a good thing. I think this is especially true in the case of ideology and philosophy. And to be frank, I think that empiricism has the monopoly right now.

The truth is, I don’t know, and I probably will never know, if this emphasis on the scientific is going to lead our race to salvation or destruction; it certainly has the potential for both. But the fact that this issue isn’t being debated in mainstream culture is not encouraging. I think it’s going to take a lot of time, patience, and thought to sort this mess out. The only thing I think we need to do is actually begin to discuss whether or not this mechanistic view of nature is going to be best for the Earth and its life in the long run.

Is there a place left for those of us who try to see the inner life of nature? Will science let those of us who find something (dare I say it?) spiritual in animals, plants, and each other, coexist as equals? I hope so. And I hope that eventually, our society, and developed societies all over the world, will be able to come back to where we came from, and see ourselves once again as sharing a deeply rooted connection with the inner life of nature.

Because while some may call me overly sentimental, I still think it takes more than a microscope and a GPS tracker to know the real truth about cranes.

Bryson Nitta