Even as a
child I seem to have had a strong feeling for what Unamuno has called “the
tragic sentiment of life.” … What I had at that time—and it has never left
me—was a dream of a reality that we could only touch tangentially, an awe of
the numinous of nature whose power rested in its very unattainability.
Erwin Chargaff, Heraclitean Fire
As is so often
the case, my yearning to partake of the natural world began early in life. I
spent a significant portion of my youth in the cloistered wilderness of a
quintessentially suburban back yard, observing bees and flies or spiders
weaving their webs, completely engrossed. Hearing the evocative calls of
white-crowned sparrows, or spotted doves cooing solemnly on foggy mornings, always
stirred something inside me—an uplifting serenity. Once, when a hummingbird
built her nest on a low branch, I got to watch the whole show, from
nest-building to minuscule eggs to first flight. When it was all over, my last
visits to the worn out nest (it had been so beautiful) introduced a vague
feeling of some unfamiliar kind of loss, the discovery that precious
experiences cannot be held onto. The whole experience was a gentle introduction
to the hard task of letting go.
Other
“life” lessons ensued: the miracle of a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis—that
metaphor for transformation so perfectly suited to a child’s mind. There were
also witnessed horrors: still-vivid memories of a seething heap of earwigs
beneath a moved flower pot and maggots audibly consuming a dead finch. These
harsh actualities outweighed by the magical arrival in the night of toadstools
on the front lawn, a warbler seen at close range…plants sprouting from the
soil, shiny buds that turned into ornate flowers that faded, shriveled, and
fell. Also budding, in my wide-open mind, was a vague sense of circularity—that
all these things were somehow linked.
Of
course, such adult remembrances have inevitably been corrupted by the passage
of time and are thus highly suspect. While memories of some events may be accurate,
any of the “lessons” that were to have real impact on my later thinking would have
been left to incubate further and gather strength. What I do know is that,
starting in early childhood, observing living things captured my interest and
imagination in ways that playing with friends or watching television did not.
Nothing else seemed so real and, by
the time I had reached my teens, already of a philosophical bent, I became
aware that the answer to certain weighty questions were most likely to be found
out of doors.
Anyone
who has ended up devoting their life to nature can share similar stories of
specific events that had a comparable impact. As for my case: our family took
frequent camping trips so I was introduced to mountains, deserts, and seashores
early on. (For these trips I am eternally grateful.) Naturally, there was a
rock collection. And seashells. My brother, older by three and a half years,
became obsessed with birds before he was ten and, once I’d caught his bug, he
became my birding mentor. Binoculars for a Christmas present, a gradual
accumulation of Peterson Field Guides, the eventual keeping of detailed lists
and records.
But
what was looking like an inevitable path toward a life in science ended unceremoniously
when I abruptly dropped out of college at twenty, troubled by feeling pressured
to make what I supposed to be an irrevocable career choice; I had no idea—much
less certainty—of what that would entail. Thus ended my “formal” schooling. I
chose, without conscious deliberation, to pursue knowledge informally by way of
a different kind of institution: the world at large. There I received an
education at what I call “the school of gentle nudges.” In lieu of classroom
and lab experience there were vivid, sometimes dramatic, real-life lessons.
These, of course, did not lead to the credentials I would have otherwise
garnered, necessary to bestow legitimate scientific authority. In exchange for a
brace of diplomas, a job title and clearly defined occupation, I accepted my
lot as humble journeyman naturalist. (While this turned out to be a fair trade
I do occasionally regret not having an undergraduate degree in geology.)
Each of my employment choices have been subject to one
imperative: that the work allow me to live in a place where I could pursue my
true interests according to my native inclinations. Best of all: for two
decades, it was my utmost privilege to spend almost half of each year as a
backcountry ranger for the U.S. Forest Service. For seventeen summers I lived a
genuine fantasy life in an old-timey log cabin boasting a clear view of what
was both craggy Sierra crest and the border of Yosemite National Park, with
my cats and horses for company and an
array of forest denizens for neighbors. (Some of them, properly speaking, were
housemates.) I had what grew to be a sizable natural history library. These
circumstances provided the best schooling one of my disposition could ever hope
for. While no substitute for the lasting benefits of a university education, I
learned a host of things—things that, as is said, “they don’t teach you in
school.”
Back to the point: a close study of the natural world conducted
in the great laboratory of the outdoors, supplemented by the written word, has
lent me a well developed sense of how nature works. But this overall impression
proved to be at variance with the one conveyed by my books. In time, this disparity
led to a nagging feeling of intellectual unrest. This uneasiness—vague at first
but growing steadily as more and more pieces of the puzzle appeared to not fit
or were missing—has gradually led to the formulation of a somewhat unorthodox
worldview.
For the most part, I view natural
processes through a scientist’s eyes: rationally and dispassionately. And have
tried to approach my studies in the spirit of the science’s rigorous standards,
filtered through the lens of a particularly robust native skepticism. I have
always felt the need to perceive the natural world as a whole and embrace its
complexity. Nonetheless, being a naturalist
connotes an innate, soulful reverence for nature that can cross the line into
mysticism. Thus has it been for me, having always felt a sense of some
impenetrable secret at life’s source
that is not formally recognized by any branch of the biological sciences. And
that proscribed mystical element is simply not tolerated among professional
scientists of any stripe.
For as long as I can remember, my mind has rebelled at the
purely mechanistic view that considers living things to be machines. In
addition, being a generalist rather than a specialist in one field, my approach
to nature and understanding of how the whole functions as one have been
powerfully influenced by the concept of collective interdependence: not only
among living things but between life in
its entirety—the whole-Earth biome. Crucial to my way of thinking, I hold that
it takes a long and full immersion in the natural world to foster an accurate,
broad-brush sense of how it functions. Notably, it matters little if this
knowledge is gained with the aid of backpack, microscope, scuba gear, or
butterfly net. The hard-won, largely intuitive knowledge acquired by such means
is not something that is learned in the lab or conveyed in full through a
purely formal education. Eventually, this multifaceted understanding of nature
manifests as little more than a elusive feeling,
which pervades everything one knows about the world. It influences every
thought, attitude, and decision in one’s work or study. It is an intellectual
medium, a gift, and a font of unlimited enchantment.
In a letter to a
student, a certain well-known physicist wrote, “The deeper we penetrate and the
more extensive and embracing our theories become, the less empirical knowledge
is needed to determine those theories.” While recognizing that the context of
his statement is not the same, I have reached a conclusion that echoes Einstein’s
sentiments—that a profound comprehension of nature’s wholeness cannot be
expressed in words or directly conveyed. It represents the sum total of the
devotee’s knowledge and experience and amounts to an intuitive understanding
not constrained by normal conceptual modes. As such, it cannot be precisely the
same for any two people; each individual will be obliged to approach, by
partially non-logical means, a representation of reality somewhat beyond the
sphere of empiricism. Another way to express this notion: any dedicated attempt
to understand life in its fullness
calls for the mind of a scientist, an artist’s heart, comfort with paradox, and freedom to admit uncertainty.
For years, these ideas simmered over a gentle flame. It was
only after I began to more seriously take on subjects such as evolution,
genetics, and origin of life theories that my views on the precise nature of life began to coalesce into a full-flavored
philosophic stance. I increasingly discovered that things I had long assumed to
be true were in fact at odds with conventional views—most conspicuously, that
there was something about life that remains outside the sphere of empirical
science. Some of my older beliefs, revealed to be erroneous, were discarded
like worn-out clothing. Still, it became glaringly obvious that few educated
people—scientists and nonscientists alike—perceived life as having any sort of causal agency unto itself. But it was
only after I began a systematic study that my private take on what life actually is began to coalesce.
It bears mentioning that these matters have long been something
of a personal fixation. I find it difficult not to ponder—bordering
obsessively—the “meaning” behind the countless faces of nature. My mind turns
to such matters, in some form or another, on a daily basis. Often, all that is
required is a brief glimpse of an insect, a pause to admire the intricacy of a
leaf, or the sight of a familiar landscape. Instantly, I feel myself washed by
a wordless, almost prayerful appreciation with a question mark and exclamation
point tacked on. While impossible to express in words, I would say that the sensation
could be akin to (but much less dramatic than) what is depicted as “seeing
one’s life flash before their eyes” when death is imminent. Or: it is like
seeing a parade of unknown faces pass in an instant before my minds eye. (This
I have experienced on occasion.) There is a powerful and bittersweet sense of knowing, but being unable to grasp, the
final truth—like trying to pull up a dream image as it inexorably fades and is
gone. I have no idea if others experience something similar. But it befalls me frequently.
As time passes, my personal impression of how nature operates,
and what life consists of, continues
to evolve and change. (It has been quite a pleasant surprise to see just how
much.) At the same time, my particular brand of understanding—my very mode of
thinking—leaves me somewhat intellectually marooned as, more and more, I find
classical western thought on certain subjects either wanting or just plain
wrong. Above all, our basic concept of life is entirely inadequate, needlessly
constrained by a narrowed view of its almost boundless capabilities. I feel
strongly that many of the limitations imposed upon how we perceive nature are simply
due to semantic shortcomings. We lack a range of nuanced terms for describing
subtler features of living matter.
A conceptual damn broke, for me,
upon realizing that what was missing was a frank admission that the living
world, while obeying all physical and chemical laws, is at the same time an
incomparable process with nebulous or ill-defined attributes—these being mingled
with life’s concrete material properties. Insofar as we have a mistaken view of
what life consists of in its
wholeness, that limited view is the result of having formed a predominantly
materialistic conception—one that cannot adequately encompass certain
inherently subjective or blurred features. A sort of cognitive dissonance is
one consequence of this dichotomy. The resulting tension is rooted in the conflict
between a material, mechanistic perspective and one that credits life‘s powers of agency and inventive creativity.
The former has led to what I consider to be a glib certitude with rather bleak undertones.
The latter contains within it a recognition of something glorious beyond words.
And with this recognition of life’s innate intelligence comes the humility that
is a side-effect of admitting ignorance of things beyond human ken.
I have little difficulty imagining a world without
consciousness, without “us.” Nature would proceed apace—the mouse heedlessly
nibbling grass seeds in a meadow, the hawk unthinkingly nibbling the mouse in
turn with neither concern nor savor. But, for us to be here, able to witness and appreciate such splendor: in a manner
of speaking, the world is much better for
it. Richer. Whether or not our existence (or that of something like humankind)
is “needed”—or even required—remains an open question.
Philosopher
Thomas Nagel neatly expresses my own position when he writes, “there may be a
completely different type of systematic account of nature, one that makes [use
of] neither brute facts that are beyond explanation nor the products of divine
intervention. That, at any rate, is my ungrounded intellectual preference.” I
have a similarly “ungrounded
intellectual preference.” With no ideological axe to grind and no prevailing
philosophy or religion to uphold, I simply wish to know, insofar as my limited capacities will permit, why our
world is the way it is.
©2017
Tim Forsell
26 Nov 2017
