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Leaves
by
Erik Moore
I love reading Shakespeare’s sonnets. But it’s not like this joy
comes naturally to human beings. I spent years learning English.
Without this, the joy of looking at those words might be merely an
amusement at the shape of letters in relation to things like ants or
pepper on a piece of paper. Learning deepens the joy possible
here and does not diminish a fanciful consideration of the poetry as
pepper.
So it is with the natural world, with our own mind, and with the
historical artifacts and histories of humanity. Knowledge enriches
the experience.
One day, as I was driving my daughter to school, a waft of bright red
leaves swept across the road, blown by an unseen force we drove
through. It was a joy to experience just that. And yet it also conjured
up in my mind the memories of chemical dances as the tree pulled
resources out of each leaf leaving one color or another as it
prepared to hunker down for a sudden Colorado freeze. Much later
I thought of the dried leaves and their chemical contents as they
competed chemically to create the right environment for their own
species to thrive even in their decay. It was not so much a carefree
dance, but a battle for survival I was witnessing. Yet, even then, I
could see in my mind down into the last green, the chlorophyll
molecule with its central iron atom humming along in its own
special vibration. I could imagine the cloud of electrons in it, and all
those in each leaf having their own magical dance, knowing that it
is of such things that I am made, and indeed the Iron atoms in all of
us had been made in a super nova, far in the distant past. My mind
swept from that microcosm to the cosmos where I counted back to
that glorious spray of light, the super nova of whose dust we are
formed. I had seen remnants of such things with my own eye,
looking through a telescope in my own back yard. How amazing
that we can look up thorough the winds of our own atmosphere and
see the dance of the stars in the celestial winds, cast about
overhead in a dance so far away and so large in scale that their
amazing speeds seem to be frozen in time for our close
inspection. That they have stood in so firm a pattern that the ancient
Greek’s imaginary pictures, drawn across their bright dots, can
prompt our own mind's eye to see Andromeda’s beauty is
amazing. That we are not chained to her as some unquestionable
reality of astronomy is another deep level of awe at the human
potential to learn, to change our paradigms, and to rip back the veils
of our own ignorance and see the universe anew with each
discovery. Sometimes I am so excited by these things, I long to
share this reaching out of the mind with others, to help people see
both Andromeda, and our neighbor galaxy through her transparent
body. But many people say, “That’s too tedious. Why bother with
that. I just like to look up and enjoy them like I see them. If I learned
all that then I couldn’t enjoy them like I do now.” So, for a time, I lay
back, and just let my own eyes fill with the glory of the night, drink of
the Milky Way. I let the stars sweep over me and enjoy the company
of a good friend. All that comes back to me, as the leaves whipped
by in an instant, and then the first flakes of winter touch the road, for
a moment a starry field, and then melts into the warm pavement,
seeping towards the roots, soon to nurture the trees.
Let’s not let others tarry too long with Shakespeare’s ants. Let’s
share the depth of joys that the world has to offer. Let’s reach out
into the universe large and small, and warm our hearts in the light
of knowledge.
© Erik Moore May 3, 2007
by
Erik Moore
I love reading Shakespeare’s sonnets. But it’s not like this joy
comes naturally to human beings. I spent years learning English.
Without this, the joy of looking at those words might be merely an
amusement at the shape of letters in relation to things like ants or
pepper on a piece of paper. Learning deepens the joy possible
here and does not diminish a fanciful consideration of the poetry as
pepper.
So it is with the natural world, with our own mind, and with the
historical artifacts and histories of humanity. Knowledge enriches
the experience.
One day, as I was driving my daughter to school, a waft of bright red
leaves swept across the road, blown by an unseen force we drove
through. It was a joy to experience just that. And yet it also conjured
up in my mind the memories of chemical dances as the tree pulled
resources out of each leaf leaving one color or another as it
prepared to hunker down for a sudden Colorado freeze. Much later
I thought of the dried leaves and their chemical contents as they
competed chemically to create the right environment for their own
species to thrive even in their decay. It was not so much a carefree
dance, but a battle for survival I was witnessing. Yet, even then, I
could see in my mind down into the last green, the chlorophyll
molecule with its central iron atom humming along in its own
special vibration. I could imagine the cloud of electrons in it, and all
those in each leaf having their own magical dance, knowing that it
is of such things that I am made, and indeed the Iron atoms in all of
us had been made in a super nova, far in the distant past. My mind
swept from that microcosm to the cosmos where I counted back to
that glorious spray of light, the super nova of whose dust we are
formed. I had seen remnants of such things with my own eye,
looking through a telescope in my own back yard. How amazing
that we can look up thorough the winds of our own atmosphere and
see the dance of the stars in the celestial winds, cast about
overhead in a dance so far away and so large in scale that their
amazing speeds seem to be frozen in time for our close
inspection. That they have stood in so firm a pattern that the ancient
Greek’s imaginary pictures, drawn across their bright dots, can
prompt our own mind's eye to see Andromeda’s beauty is
amazing. That we are not chained to her as some unquestionable
reality of astronomy is another deep level of awe at the human
potential to learn, to change our paradigms, and to rip back the veils
of our own ignorance and see the universe anew with each
discovery. Sometimes I am so excited by these things, I long to
share this reaching out of the mind with others, to help people see
both Andromeda, and our neighbor galaxy through her transparent
body. But many people say, “That’s too tedious. Why bother with
that. I just like to look up and enjoy them like I see them. If I learned
all that then I couldn’t enjoy them like I do now.” So, for a time, I lay
back, and just let my own eyes fill with the glory of the night, drink of
the Milky Way. I let the stars sweep over me and enjoy the company
of a good friend. All that comes back to me, as the leaves whipped
by in an instant, and then the first flakes of winter touch the road, for
a moment a starry field, and then melts into the warm pavement,
seeping towards the roots, soon to nurture the trees.
Let’s not let others tarry too long with Shakespeare’s ants. Let’s
share the depth of joys that the world has to offer. Let’s reach out
into the universe large and small, and warm our hearts in the light
of knowledge.
© Erik Moore May 3, 2007
Page and Icons © Mission of Reason™ all rights reserved. Mission of
Reason™ is a non-profit corporation of the state of Colorado, U.S.A. Text
and images falls under the copyright of the author when indicated.
Reason™ is a non-profit corporation of the state of Colorado, U.S.A. Text
and images falls under the copyright of the author when indicated.
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MOR - Inspiring Stories
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