Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

Statistically, the probability of any one of us being here is so small that you'd think the mere fact of existing would keep us all in a contented dazzlement of surprise. We are alive against the stupendous odds of genetics, infinitely outnumbered by all the alternates who might, except for luck, be in our places.

Even more astounding is our statistical improbability in physical terms. The normal, predictable state of matter throughout the universe is randomness, a relaxed sort of equilibrium, with atoms and their particles scattered around in an amorphous muddle. We, in brilliant contrast, are completely organized structures, squirming with information at every covalent bond. We make our living by catching electrons at the moment of their excitement by solar photons, swiping the energy released at the instant of each jump and storing it up in intricate loops for ourselves.

We violate probability, by our nature. To be able to do this systematically, and in such wild varieties of form, from viruses to whales, is extremely unlikely; to have sustained the effort successfully for the several billion years of our existence, without drifting back into randomness, was nearly a mathematical impossibility.

Add to this the biological improbability that makes each member of our own species unique. Everyone is one in three billion at the moment, which describes the odds. Each of us is a self-contained, free-standing individual, labeled by specific protein configurations at the surfaces of cells, identifiable by whorls of fingertip skin, maybe even by special medleys of fragrance. You'd think we'd never stop dancing.

Lewis Thomas, The Lives of a Cell: Notes of a Biology Watcher

Trees of Gladness

Friday Ramble - Edgy

This week's word has been around since the eleventh century, making its way to us through the Middle English egge, the Old English ecg, the Old French aiglent and the Old Germanic ecke, all meaning "corner". It is also related to the Latin acer meaning "sharp", and the Greek akmē meaning "point". At the root of it all is the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) form ak- meaning "sharp". Kindred words in the English language include acerbic, acid, acrid, acumen, acupuncture, acute, eager, ester, exacerbate, hammer and selvedge as well as eglantine (or sweetbriar), an old world rose known for its formidable thorns.

An edgy time is this, for the old Celtic year is passing away, and we stand on the threshold of a brand new year, in the north a chilling contraption of fallen leaves and freezing earth, short days, darkness, frost and wind.

The eastern Ontario highlands always seem empty at this time of the year and rather lonesome. Except for Canada geese and a few intrepid herons, migratory birds have departed for warmer climes, and the lakes seem still and empty. Most of our wild forest kin are already hibernating or are thinking about doing it.

On early morning walks, the long shadows falling across our trail have edges as sharp as the finest examples of the blade smith's craft. The earth beneath our boots is firm, leaves are crunchy, and puddles along our way are rimed with ice. For all the emptiness, morning sunlight changes the landscape into something rich and elegant and inviting: glittering weed fronds artfully curved and waving, milkweed sculpted into pleasing shapes, bare trees twinkling like stars, the margins of blackberry leaves rosy and sparkling with frost crystals. The air is fragrant with cedar, spruce and pine.

These weeks always seem chthonic to me. That engaging word with its bewildering arrangement of vowels and consonants springs from the Greek khthonios, meaning "of the earth", and it is usually employed in describing subterranean matters and deities of the underworld. In using the adjective, we focus on what is deeper or within, rather than on what is apparent at first glance or resting on the surface. Implicit in the expression are notions of rest, sleep, fertility and rebirth - entelechy, mortality and abundance coexisting and enfolding each other in a deep embrace.

Thursday Poem - October

October. Its brilliant festival of dry

and moist decay. Its spicy, musky scent.

The church's parking lot deserted

except for this one witness,

myself, just resting there.

Somewhere a radio plays Flamenco.

A spotlight of sunshine falls on the

scattered debris. Blood-red and gold,

a perfect circle of leaves begins to whirl,

slowly at first, keeping the pattern,

clicking against the blacktop

like heels and castanets,

then faster, faster, faster. . .

round as a ruffle, as the swirling

skirts of an invisible dancer.

Swept off into the tangled woods

by the muscular breeze.

The hoarse cheering of crows.

Inside the dark empty church,

long cool shadows, white-painted wood,

austere Protestant candles thriftily snuffed,

Perhaps a note on the altar,

Gone dancing. Back on Sunday

Dolores Stewart, from The Nature of Things

Wordless Wednesday - Singing Their Way Home

Happy October!