The Tree is Not a “Tree”—Part 2

Let’s look yet a little deeper into the “tree.” It is, of course, made up of trillions of atoms and molecules. But an atom is mostly nothingness: a tiny, dense nucleus surrounded by a swarm of electrons at some vast distance away. Consider a carbon atom, for example: If its nucleus was, say, the size of a golf ball, the electron cloud swirling around it would be out there, some 2-3 miles away. A golf ball sitting inside a sphere that's several miles big! The atom is not anything substantial at all; it’s some 99.9999% or so of emptiness. Thus there’s this big nothingness the “tree,” reflecting photons (which are really nothing, no mass, wholly insubstantial, only energy) into our eye. It’s not what we think it is at all. It’s pretty much nothing!

So OK, one might respond. So the symbol of the “tree” I create in my head is just a bunch of electrical signals. So maybe what I think I’m seeing is not really there. You tell me it’s just a bunch of nothingness. But when I go over and touch the tree, I can feel that it’s something solid. The bark is hard and ridged; the leaves are flexible and smooth. I can feel it. So it’s something physically substantial, right? Wrong. That feeling you got from your sense of touch does not indicate something solid at all.

The “tree” is, remember, mostly nothingness. So is your hand. The touch you feel is just two different kind of nothingness atoms (or molecules) electrically repelling each other. The electrons in the empty atoms of your “hand” meet the electrons in the empty atoms of the “tree” and their opposing electrical fields stop each other cold. The stronger the electrical field, the greater the repulsion—it feels more solid to you. So your “hand” meeting the “tree” is nothing more than two nothings—two vacuous electric fields—refusing to allow the other to pass. Again, nothing!

To some of us, the description of this reality of the “tree” may sound sterile and even rather sinister. We’d rather live with the symbols we’ve created in our heads and get along just fine, without trying to maintain that they are the reality of the world. We all do this most of the time anyway. These images get so entrenched in our psyche that they are real to us. Like the spider, we’re happy in our ignorance. But like the spider, the truth is that our perception of the world is a mere fraction—even a misrepresentation—of reality. It’s all so much grander and whole than we can imagine.

I think it’s important to pause now and then and acknowledge that our viewpoint is fragmentary, at best. My dog’s olfactory world is far richer than mine. An eagle’s visual world dwarfs mine. A bee’s sensitivity to ultraviolet light reflected from a flower tells it things I’m ignorant of. The mysteries and wonders of the world are things that my senses can only begin to comprehend. It helps me keep my hubris in check, to remind myself that my conception of this sacred universe needs a lot of expanding to even begin to be considered authentic.