James Wilson and I had been casually acquainted for thirty-some years but, prior to setting out on a five-day backpack trip along the crest of the Inyo Mountains, had never spent time together—just us two. James, a successful local business owner, was a self-possessed, intelligent, and thoughtful man with varied interests. I was looking forward to what I knew would be some high quality conversation, long overdue. But in many regards we barely knew one another. Five days alone together would change that.
Just minutes into our long walk we took the first of many trailside breaks, dropping our heavy packs and flopping down on the ground for a sip of water and bite to eat. Neither of us had spoken a word since starting out. We made small talk for a few minutes but then I launched directly into something meatier, a matter that had been weighing on my mind for some time. I just blurted it out: “Uhh, James…do you have any particular thoughts on the origin of life? Any pet theories?”
A little back-story may be in order here, on the off chance that these might sound like odd things to ask someone I didn’t know all that well, without any warning.
Around this time I’d taken up reading books about biogenesis—the origin of life—a topic that has intrigued me since I first looked into it. How did life begin? From the very beginning, though, I’ve been shocked by how top experts gloss over the competing theories’ obvious flaws…disturbed by the wild assumptions and logical leaps and scientists taking too many liberties with their best-guessing. The entire field of biogenesis research is fraught with impossible to prove notions and paradoxical chicken-or-egg-type dilemmas…thought-provoking stuff, indeed. Since everything in nature is linked to everything else, the life sciences tend to get messy; thanks to there always being a host of intersecting variables, experiments in areas like ecology can be challenging to set up and hypotheses, difficult to either confirm or refute. Compared to your “typical” scientific theories the predominant origin-of-life scenarios have a distinctly unscientific lack of substance and rigor. Most are based on pure surmise, which isn’t surprising given that no one has any idea what global conditions were like three-and-a-half billion years ago. Plus, there’s virtually no evidence left behind that could support the models. But this was all new to me at the time and there were many nagging questions. I’d been hankering for someone to toss ideas around with and James Wilson, all-around nature lover, seemed like just the sort who’d be interested in such things.
The response to my out of the blue query was not quite what I’d expected. Just then, James was gazing off into the distance. After a momentary pause he half turned toward me, eyes askance, lips pressed into an inscrutable Mona Lisa smile. With no sense as to whether or not the topic held any interest for him, here’s one response that wouldn’t have surprised me in the least: “No, not really…I really haven’t given it much thought. Why?” But this is what James said instead: “Oh. [short pause] You’re a seeker.” His flat tone conveyed just a hint of shock or surprise or what could even have been something indicating mild annoyance. The delicate emphasis on “seeker” carried a faint whiff of sarcasm. It’s entirely possible that I misread him. But James did seem ever-so-slightly vexed—maybe from being caught off guard by such a “heavy” question; surprised that I’d thought to ask for his opinion, surprised that I’d think it was something he’d ever given any thought. Maybe a bit startled to discover that I was one of those types who waste their time thinking about things best left alone. This, at least, was my immediate impression. (Truth be told, I had asked the questions somewhat rhetorically just to gauge his response.) There was nothing disparaging in James’s reply but it contained a subtle intimation that he wasn’t interested in pursuing the topic further. We moved on to other things. But I’ve never forgotten this exchange—it struck a nerve.
The point of all this is that smart, well-informed, curious people aren’t automatically predisposed to probe life’s deepest mysteries. My own philosophical bent, on the other hand, blossomed at a tender age. With me it seems to be part of a package deal—chalk it up to an innate proclivity, to my native disposition. There might well be a genetic component though no one in my family is similarly afflicted. I feel no pride at being an incurable ponderer of enigmas and unknowables. And don’t see my penchant for suchlike as having virtuous or noble qualities. If anything, it’s more along the line of a quirk, an eccentricity. Some would no doubt find it annoying. Compulsive rumination has drawbacks and can lead to problems (chronic cynicism being one common side effect). Like most over-thinkers, I’m always happy to raise my glass to the absurd and farcical side of human endeavor—and sometimes even remember to toast my own follies.
Now and then, circumstances call on me to poke fun at my tendency to veer off into philosophical realms, maybe to spoil a perfectly good conversation: As if from a distance, I hear the sound of pontificating, catch myself and stop cold. At which point I’ll assume an exaggerated, self-important professorial demeanor and tone of voice, and say something like, “Well, as a certified philostopher, I believe that….” Or some such nonsense. Philostopher? Frank Zappa, the late composer, musician, iconoclast, and social commentator, invented this useful term. (Zappa, arch cynic that he was, never passed up an opportunity to deride any kind of pretense.) What exactly does a philostopher do? Why, a philostopher philostophizes, of course! In my adult form, tinkering with the Larger Questions is more or less a form of idle play, an intellectual diversion. Something not too far removed from doing Sudoku or the New York Times crossword puzzle. This, then, is philostophizing—a leisure pursuit. On the other hand, I’ve learned that philostophizing is not an entirely fruitless activity. Which is gratifying to know.
In contrast, my youthful preoccupation with figuring out what the heck was going on had real urgency and for a few years, starting post-puberty, I naïvely expected some answers, dammit! This, followed by the inevitable distress and disenchantment any budding intellectual experiences once it finally becomes clear that, despite all the ardent questing, no answers will be forthcoming. Ever. That came as a real shock to the system and added to my growing teenage disillusionment. Welcome to reality, kid. Not what you were expecting, hunh? Get over it! Nonetheless, over the years I’ve carried on with my quixotic sniffing-around-the-edges of elusive and intangible things…poking about for clues and hints simply because questing is a pleasurable activity, no matter what one is looking for. And now, as a world-weary old philostopher who knows perfectly well that such avenues of thought consistently lead to dead ends, I’m like one of those seasoned fisherman who could care less if they land any fish. It’s all in the hunt.
There’s one specific area in the realm of unknowables that still has me spinning the old brainwheels in philostophical speculation: the lingering questions of synchronistic events, which I’ll lump together here with what Carl Jüng called the “meaningful coincidence,” along with those just plain weird, exceedingly improbable occurrences that lack a name and defy categorization. It’s doubtful that anyone will ever come up with anything like a rational explanation for these ab-paranormal phenomena. Yet they’re part of day-to-day life; they happen to everyone, are utterly compelling and—despite what many people firmly believe—are not simply random events with no meaning or significance. Speaking for myself, the thought of dying and being reduced to powdered form without ever having uncovered at least a hint of what all these things signify, I find downright tragic. I’d really like to know….something. Anything! A crumb!
Then there’s this slant: human consciousness, in some sense, makes the world real…gives it meaning. Recalling the old chestnut about whether a tree falling makes a sound if no one is there to hear, a forceful argument can be made as to whether or not anything actually exists outside the human mind. We know that an object’s solidity is mere illusion; physical matter consists almost entirely of empty space—what we perceive as solid under our touch amounts to the mutual repulsion of electron clouds meeting between fingertip and table top. Colors are, in effect, pigments of our imagination; what we “see,” what we perceive as colorful images through our two skull-portholes, is nothing more than a vivid representation constructed by the brain. Say what you will about humanity and our overblown sense of how we figure in the grand scheme: we—and we alone—give reality substance through our perceptions. As I say, there’s a powerful line of reasoning backing the idea that, without our being here as witnesses, the world doesn’t really exist—a concept known as the Participatory Universe.
Here I am, getting all cerebral (again). But this is a good place to point out that people like James may have the proper perspective on all this. Maybe we really are best off letting certain notions alone. Maybe, since humans clearly have conceptual limitations, toying with imponderables is little more than self-indulgence, a petty and prideful minor vice, utterly pointless and a waste of precious time. I don’t know and can’t tell…but can’t seem to stop. I’m going to go with my gut on this one and keep probing.
But back to synchronicity and those other things. I’ve experienced some real doozies in my day. And freely admit that I have no inkling, not a single one, as to how to explain them. Which has always bothered me. They happen. They do. And seem to happen to me more often than they do to others. I’ve read that people who are prone to expecting to see connections, who are paying close attention to the world at large, are those most apt to find them. This makes sense and offers perhaps the closest thing I’ve come to an “explanation,” as it were. If so, it might be that a life-long study of nature (which after all is one endless lesson about interconnectedness) makes me predisposed to see myself as part of the whole shebang and I’m subconsciously seeking affirmation.
At any rate, the surprising frequency and implausibility of the sort of events I’m referring to leads me to believe that they must have some sort of meaning…are of consequence…bear significance. None of these words fit; the English language comes up short, again (through no fault of its own). The best pseudo-clarification I’ve come up with is a whimsical metaphor. Here goes: These special events are like hand-delivered messages from the Cosmos: There’s a knock: Telegram for a Mr. Fersell! Go to the door…take it, rip it open. Oh! It’s a message from the Universe! How nice! As presented earlier, perhaps it’s not too far fetched to imagine that the Universe wants to be aware of itself. The Universe needs…needs us…to make it real, bring it to life. In a manner of speaking, it appreciates our being here. Perhaps those ridiculously improbable, random-seeming occurrences are just a wonderful, wonder-filled world’s way of letting us know it’s thinking about us. And cares enough to drop a line from time to time. Just a little kindly reminder.
I received one such cosmic telegram nine years ago on a New Year’s Day, a day that also happened to be the one-month anniversary of my settling in Santa Cruz County…one calendar month into initiating major life-changes that were contingent on this move, namely: I found a Home. I began living with Dylan, who would become my cherished wife; who gave me a second chance, who was at that moment entirely focused on the project of saving me from certain ruin. I began the hard work of confronting my addictions and depression, putting an end to a dark downward spiral. Gave up marijuana and quit drinking alcohol. At last. All this on the same day—the first of December, 2011.
I have a long tradition of spending at least part of New Year’s Day outdoors. This was to be Dylan’s and my first new-year celebration and we were especially conscious of—and grateful for—this new beginning. This new life, together. Fittingly, it was a splendid, calm, cloudless California-winter day. (One of those.) Like spring. So we drove north up the coast highway a few miles to Waddell Creek, parked, and walked back down the cliff-bound beach as far as Greyhound Rock. Greyhound “Rock” is actually more of an oblong hillock of naked grey mudstone, perhaps a hundred feet high, located just offshore. Normally the rock is inaccessible with waves swirling in from both sides to wash up onto the sand-spit that they’ve piled up midway. But when the tide is out you can wade across, scramble up a narrow trail, and stroll around on top.
The tide was low, just starting on its way back up so it was easy to cross. We’d been carrying our shoes since fording Waddell Creek but left them near the crest of the spit well above the tide’s reach, then gingerly waded across the mussel- and barnacle-plated slab before padding up the shaley path, a pair of literal tenderfoots. Greyhound Rock’s offshore side is cliffy and we settled down on a ledge directly above the water, gazing off toward Japan. For a good half hour we talked, grokking the sea, relishing this dazzling day. And, part of the time, just sat quietly absorbed in our own thoughts. I got up to wander around a couple of times and looked over at the shoes, thinking how silly it would be to watch them wash away and float out to sea like tiny boats. The tide was visibly rising now and they looked to be safe for quite a while yet but…. I thought, Why didn’t you just put ‘em way up higher and not even have to think about it, ya big dummy?
It’d been nice walking barefoot on the cool, wet sand but we did that mincing, ooh!ahh!ooh!ahh!-thing down the narrow trail and then back across the barnacled reef. The cold seawater felt very refreshing. As we walked up the top of the little sand-spit to retrieve our shoes and socks I joked to Dylan about how embarrassing it would be to come back and find our footwear gone, washed away, how very contrary the ocean is, hah hah! We both reached down simultaneously to pick up our shoes and in the
exact instant we lifted them off the sand a roguish wave swept in from behind, up the incline, swirled around our ankles, and washed over the top. The beach was fairly flat right there but no wave had come within twenty feet of our shoes until that one, nor had a wave crested the sand-spit since the previous ebbing tide. We didn’t see it coming—were just chatting away when we grabbed our shoes. The timing was utterly exquisite and we had a fine, hearty heart-to-heart laugh together along with high-fives, savoring the moment and smiling into each others’ eyes, all the love reflecting back.
Knock knock knock! Telegram for Dylan and Tim!
©2021Tim Forsell 20 May 2013, 1 Jan 2021
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