Somewhere out there is the ultimate story. The difference between this story and all other stories is that this story is the Ultimate Truth about Life, the Universe, and Everything. We tell stories all the time and probably have since the beginning of, well, ever. We tell Everything stories, I think, because they often ground us. Religion and Science dominate the Everything landscape, but there are others. I have never found any one set to be fully satisfying. But I suspect that there is some small amount of truth in many of them. I find pearls that ring true for me, grab hold of them and spin them until they become part of my psyche. However, I often also find unsatisfying empty spaces between the dots. The missing bits can feel like a frighteningly empty void or full of possibilities and excitement depending on the story and my current state of mind.
I have been listening quite a bit lately to parts of the science story because… well… I am in love with it. I love picking topics into smaller and smaller bits. Simply finding and asking the questions about how things work, what is the why, and where is the cause and effect is fascinating for a geek like me. But… here’s one problem…
The story of us as conscious individuals – the basic premise behind much of the science about people — is one that feels empty to me. We are but infinitesimally small and insignificant bags of chemicals. Our chemicals (atoms that hang out together in various states) influence cells (smaller bags of chemicals including various proteins, lipids, water, sugars, DNA, etc) to do things (make more chemicals, make more cells, differentiate into a special type of cell, simply hang out…). Our consciousness, our senses, and our actions are due, in essence, to the actions of the species of cell that can fire and create electrical impulses within our body to make things happen—i.e. neurons. At any given instant, depending upon the resultant summery of impulses and mix of chemicals, we experience events and behave in certain ways. In the end, self is in essence but a story we tell “ourselves” to explain the weirdness of the universe to “ourselves.”
But wait! Time? Well, all of this time business that we experience is not reality at all. Time is something we experience because we lack the bit of perception we would need to experience the whole. But, if I could somehow use some sort of calculus to take something like a derivative of this teeeeny section of time and space:
This random bag of chemicals which is “me” just happened to be together at this point in time and space. Some neurons and chemicals are behaving one way while others are behaving another way. They each do their own completely separate thing resulting in a combination that causes “me” to write on this paper. While all those neurons are firing, because “I” evolved from other bags of chemicals into this “being” who can imagine, I find it necessary to explain to “myself” why I am writing on this paper. So, I take these (wildly imperfect) memories (which are still more chemicals – this time shaped like proteins forming connections between cells in the form of neural tissue) and attempt to piece the bits of input stimulus together to tell myself a story that makes sense of why these words are appearing on this piece of paper and why I feel the sensation of a pen and of writing in this part of “me” that I call my hand.
However, time is but something we experience. Before, now, and after have no real meaning. It all just is. At some point in the universe, my handwriting was always there. The chemicals were always there. At some point in the all, it always was, always is, and always will be. There isn’t any always. Choice never even comes into the equation. Who would there be to choose anyway?
I dunno! It just sounds so bleak! If in the end I am just a story I tell myself—the story of what has happened/is happening/has always happened to this body—who indeed cares? Who is there to care? If now is ultimately just part of this thing which exists and there are no choices to be made—if decisions are simply, really, rationalizations—well it kind of makes it all feel a bit of a cruel trick doesn’t it? I mean, if that were the case, writing these words was predetermined, my wondering if I have a choice was written in the cosmos before it was written on this piece of paper—or at the same time—or, really, time is just part of this fabric that just is…
Ok this is where I begin to gibber…
Taken at face value, this view of the universe isn’t just bleak, for me it’s completely incomprehensible. It leaves even bigger “But that just doesn’t make any sense!” impressions on my poor befuddled brain. The “But why would anyone create a universe like that?” question flashes in big bold neon-like signs. This, of course, is a ridiculous question because it assumes that someone did create the universe. Any self-respecting scientist would sneer and say something like “and where exactly did this supposed person come from?” But still I exclaim (in my head of course): Isn’t science all about finding the why? In the end, it all breaks down in my head if there is no reason in the beginning. Deep inside, I still feel that no matter how long science tries, it can never get to the true bottom of the why and the what. It can only pull away layers.
Here’s the crux. I’ve always felt comfortable straddling science and spirituality. I figure there’s this soul thing that is my essence. I’m not 100% sure where it came from exactly, but it doesn’t feel as brandy new or as short-lived as this body and, anyway, it can’t have come from a vacuum, so it must have come from somewhere spiritual. There is an energy that connects me to my family, my friends, and the rest of the world. This belief brings me comfort and makes me feel whole. It also gives me a sense of responsibility to myself, my family, my friends, and to the world. It forms my reason for being, guides my behavior, and frames my choices, decisions, and actions. The “higher” me, as I’ve sometimes heard it called, makes me a complete person who is cognizant, open to my surroundings, and able to make choices and to change.
And there’s the part of me that loves the science and the physical. I love the digging and the questions and I love, sometimes, having a shot at an answer.
It’s the whole mind-body-spirit trilogy thing. I happen to love all 3! I don’t think that feeding my mind should make me choose against the spirit or vise-versa. But lately, I almost feel like there’s this rational science guy asking me to make that choice. Cue evil science guy: “Here’s the deal Jack… we’ve done the experiments, this is what they show us. Now, what is your basis for spirituality?”
Now, for my response:
Fuck.
You.
There.
Maybe spirituality doesn’t need any basis. Maybe, just maybe, it’s felt and that’s enough. I feel connected to my husband, my children, my friends, life, the world.
Maybe this is just all a story I’m telling myself but, if so, it’s a much more complete and happy story if I can keep my spirit. So that is my choice. Yes, choice. I will keep it.
I think I need to find some new podcasts 
but we can always hope… 