Imbolc Incident

It is the last week of January—which to my mind can be the epitome of the doldrums of winter. Well, maybe not the worst of it. The worst is more like late February, when I become very disheartened, because winter seems to be interminably stuck and refuses to yield to spring. 

What we experience in late January or early February is the cross-quarter day called Imbolc. It is a Celtic day of observation that falls halfway between winter solstice and spring equinox. The solstices and equinoxes occur at precise astronomical dates, which designate when the Earth is at a specific location in its orbit around the sun. Their timing is known; even to the exact minute. The cross-quarter days, however, are imprecise, because their timing depends on local weather; thus Imbolc, for example, falls on about February 1, or maybe a few days on either side.

Imbolc's significance is that it signals the very first signs of the quickening of life in the spring. While we may look around and see no discernible change at this time of year, plants and animals at Imbolc time sense the change coming on and begin to stir. Deep underground, seeds begin to swell, getting ready to pop open. Cows begin to lactate again (Imbolc means “with milk”). While we humans can watch the calendar and note that cross quarter time is here, animals and plants sense it. 

I heard a great example this morning that showed me that Imbolc had arrived—even though the weather lately has been extremely cold and snow coats the ground. I was having no thoughts of spring—only my lamentations over the frigid conditions. Stepping outside, I heard the call of a titmouse. I immediately stopped and listened. Was I really hearing a titmouse call in late January? These birds call in spring, during mating season, and occasionally during the summer—but never in fall or winter. They might chatter scoldingly on frigid days, but they do not sing.

That's what halted me so abruptly. I had not heard a titmouse call for five months or more. Was I imagining it? No, the call came again. It was way off in the woods. An hour or so later I heard the call yet again—this time from another direction, again off in the woods. That told me that the first call did not come from an addled bird, who was maybe suffering from hypothermia. This was another titmouse. I later heard a third... then a fourth.

Why this untimely singing, on such a frigid morning? The sole explanation I could come up with was they were responding to Imbolc. Something was stirring deep in the breast of these birds—a primeval urge that the earliest hints of spring were causing. I wondered if underground seeds might also be showing the slightest hint of swelling—getting ready for the new year. I would remain ignorant about that, however, since the ground is coated with a thick, ice-covered coat of snow. Icy winter is in no hurry to depart, but that first sign of spring is here!

Fungi Functions

Fungi are one of the most fascinating life forms on Earth—as well as one of the most important. They can be unicellular (like yeasts and molds) or multicellular (like mushrooms). They constitute their own taxonomical kingdom, unique to all other life forms, although they are more closely related to animals than plants.

Some of the most valuable fungi are those that form a symbiotic relationship with plants—especially trees. Fungi do not contain chlorophyll, so they cannot make their own food, which is why they have created a mutually beneficial bond with plants. They receive food (in the form of sugars) from plants and provide valuable services in return.

Fungi are vital for the existence of trees. They decompose dead leaves into compost— creating invaluable nitrogen in the process. Fungi absorb chemicals and pollutants such as heavy metals—thus protecting trees. They accumulate water, helping trees to survive droughts. They produce hormones that encourage new root tips, thereby controlling a tree's growth. Trees communicate with each other through their roots, using fungi to link them in shared networks (sometimes called the “wood wide web”).

In a healthy forest there is a wide variety of tree and fungi species, so they mix and match. If one species of fungus dies, trees will search for another species. Likewise, if a species of tree dies, fungi will search for another kind of tree to link to. When humans disturb a forest, these exquisitely balanced symbiotic relationships can become severed—harming both trees and fungi, and thus the health of the woods.

Underground fungal networks can be huge. They can span thousands of acres. The total length of mycelium (the stringy underground part of the fungus, containing fine white filaments) in the top few inches of forest soil is some 270 quadrillion miles (450 quadrillion km) long—which is about half the width of our galaxy! One forest fungi in Oregon is about 2400 years old and weighs over 600 tons! Some one-third to one-half of all the living mass in soils is fungi. That’s pretty heavy-duty importance!

So, why should we be aware of—let alone concerned with—the millions-of-years-old cooperative relationship between fungi and plants? To begin with, that relationship and its crucial importance to the health of the ecosystem is being threatened by human activity. If this symbiotic dependence is broken, neither trees nor fungi will fare well. They cannot thrive—or even survive—on their own.

How are we humans disturbing this delicate balance? When logging operations invade a forest, that symmetry is destroyed. Clear-cutting an area of trees isolates the fungi, which cannot exist alone. The remaining fungi and trees become ill. Monocropping destroys the balance between numerous kinds of fungi and plants. Some one-third to one-half of the living mass of healthy soils is fungi. By damaging either plants or the fungi, that balance is destroyed. 

One scientific projection estimates that, by 2050, more than 90% of the planet's soil will be degraded, if we don't change our ways. By focusing our attention on above-ground ecosystems, we are in danger of ignoring the below-ground role of fungi. We are upsetting a balance that has been established for 500 million years.

Astronomy vs. Astrology

People pretty much agree about the differences between astronomy and astrology. Most of us understand that the former is a physical science, while the latter is a practice that rests upon the assumption that movements and changes in the relative positions of celestial bodies have an influence on humans. In ancient times people did not know what those celestial bodies were—they might as well have been various kinds of lights that played across the sky, propelled by the gods or other mysterious forces. The concept of a star or a planet was beyond them.

In an attempt to explain what impelled these lights to move and change, stories arose that the gods pushed and pulled them across the sky. When monotheism emerged, it was God who was behind the action. Particularly unusual or spectacular celestial events (like the appearance of comets, eclipses, meteor showers) were interpreted as particularly significant messages sent by God. Since most monarchs were touted as having been installed by God, these events were seen to be auspicious messages for the monarchs: such as presaging the birth of an offspring or the outcome of a planned military venture.

Astrologers became famous (or humiliated) by the accuracy (or not) of their prophecies. As the profession of astrology became increasingly complex, the behaviors and destinies of common folk also began to be addressed.

By the 1600s things dramatically changed. Some scholars—people who became the first scientists—began to comprehend the true nature of these celestial objects. They came to be known as stars, comets, planets, etc. Kepler and Newton studied their motions and developed theories as to the cause of those behaviors: gravity. These were shown to be natural phenomena, that obeyed laws that these scientists discovered... natural laws. The breakthrough in understanding came when these scholars were able to use these laws to predict the appearance of comets, eclipses, and meteor showers.

The breakthrough was the knowledge that these phenomena obeyed predictable laws. Humans could never foretell the whims of God, but the fact that they could foretell celestial events showed that God was not using them to sway human behavior. There was no need to impress or frighten people when a predictable (and comprehensible) eclipse occurred. Astronomy was born as a science.

By the 17^th century astrology had become such an entrenched practice, that astronomy would not displace it from the human scene. People are determined to explain unexpected or seemingly predictable events by mystical and supernatural forces. In uncertain times people turn to astrology for explanations of unexpected and disquieting happenings.  We are living in uncertain times. Astrology is currently experiencing a popular surge.

Andromeda Image

 

Aiming for Andromeda

When we peer into the dark night sky, the vast majority of objects that we can see without binoculars or telescopes are stars in the nearby neighborhood of our Milky Way Galaxy. Depending on the sharpness of our eyesight and if our eyes have had a chance to adjust to the darkness, we may be able to see some 4,000 stars—only a very few of which are planets and various nebula. Though our galaxy contains something on the order of 100-400 billion stars, we can see but the tiniest fraction of the closest ones, by naked eye. There are maybe 100-200 billion galaxies—which reside so far away that only the most powerful telescopes can see them. (Note that there is quite a range of estimates of the number of stars and galaxies; it is not easy to approximate these quantities.)

Yet there is one galaxy—just one—that we can see with the naked eye: Andromeda Galaxy; the closest one to ours. Andromeda appears quite large in the winter sky—about the size of 5-6 full moons laid side by side. That sounds pretty spectacular—and it is—but most of us will never get the chance to spot this galaxy. Why? For two reasons: (1) you'll never find this faint object if you are looking for it anywhere near the bright lights of a city, and (2) it is extremely faint; even on a dark country night you need to know exactly where to look, but still can easily miss it.

I have struggled for years to spot this sister galaxy of ours. I know exactly where to look and I wait until my eyes have adjusted to the dark... but no luck so far. It's frustrating, because I feel certain that I once saw Andromeda about three decades ago. It was spectacular! It was unlike any other sight in the night sky. I did not know precisely where to look at the time, so I put down my discovery that night to being blessed with great fortune. The vision has remained like a photograph in my mind, which I've conjured up from time to time.

So why have I failed to view Andromeda gain, after all these years? I do know just where to look, but no luck so far. I can come up with three possible explanations: (1) my aging eyes are not as sharp as they were a few decades ago, (2) even though we live in a very rural area, light pollution has relentlessly increased since then, or (3) just maybe I was imagining I once saw Andromeda.

Then, the other night, as I sat in the outdoor tub, intently looking at the place where the galaxy should be, I thought I saw a faint smudge... very faint. It wasn't at all spectacular—just a wan, fuzzy blob; nothing like what I observed decades ago. Is this all that my weakening eyes can now see, or was I maybe once again just imagining I could see it?

Reproducing Robots

About 100 years ago the word robot was coined. Its origin is a Czech word, robota, which means “forced labor.” In the ensuing century, the definition of the term robot has evolved (thanks to the use of computers) from a machine that behaves as a slave, to an entity that can act autonomously and intelligently by performing complex tasks. In fact, with the advent of artificial intelligence, some people now speculate that we may be on the verge of creating robots that are far smarter than humans, and may soon turn the tables and enslave us!

Robots running amok is a fear that, by dint of unleashed technology, we may about to uncork a machine-like Pandora's Box, by taking an unwise step that will lead to future ominous problems. That possibility has created countless science fiction tales which suggest that our human future may contain many battles with robots who rebel and try to defeat us. One of the most famous depictions was a series of novels by Isaac Asimov, who expanded upon the Czech origin of robot, to coin the term robotics in 1941. Asimov conceived of his three laws of robotics—that would prohibit robots from harming human beings. His assurances, however, have not mitigated the fear in some people’s minds that robots may eventually rebel and some day take over.

Now comes the possibility from a scientific collaboration between teams from the UK and Netherlands, that robots may soon breed and evolve. That idea takes these machines ever closer to human-like capabilities—maybe even enclosing them within the realm of what we call life. Yikes! That's too close to Frankenstein's creation of a “living being” from dead body parts... and we know the troubles caused by that creature.

So can a robot ever attain the qualities of evolving and being “alive”? Biology defines life as exhibiting about six features: (1) a complex assembly of “living” cells, (2) able to respond to diverse stimuli, (3) reproduction, (4) self-regulation, to respond to its environment, (5) possessing homeostasis—to maintain critical internal conditions and balances, and (6) processing energy, to carry on its metabolic activities.

Maybe those 100-year-old robots were simple programmed machines, but today's robots feature most of these characteristics of life. For example, the UK and Dutch researchers' robotic technology is able to spawn (birth?) offspring that receive a transplanted “brain” (in the form of software) from their “parents,” which contain inherited traits.

These robots employ artificial intelligence, which guides that inheritance, so as to optimize certain capabilities for specific missions that we are as yet unable to comprehend. Is this some form of robotic evolution—an evolution in which they can control themselves, and pass traits on to future robotic generations? Are we opening a Pandora's Box, from which super robots will soon breed and become god-like beings? Asimov, we may need your robotic laws to protect us.

Immaterial Mortality

 In 1905 Albert Einstein published his groundbreaking Special Theory of Relativity. I've written before about how revolutionary his ideas were. They solved a conundrum that had been bedeviling physicists for several years, regarding the properties of light. Whereas scientists had been considering time to be constant for all observers (regardless of their location or motion), the speed of light was seen as variable, being dependent on an observer's behavior. Einstein proved it to be the opposite. He began with the assumption that the velocity of light would be seen as identical for everyone—regardless of how fast they moved or where they were. The consequence of this premise is that the passage of time is a variable; the march of time depends on your speed... that is, while time is not a constant, the speed of light is.

One commonly-expressed result of his relativity theory is the so-called “Twin Paradox.” Calculations (later proved by measurements) showed that, if one twin takes off on a rocket ship and returns some time later, the traveling twin will be a tad younger than the twin who stayed home. This is very counterintuitive. Time for the traveling twin actually passes more slowly.

These relativistic effects are not usually seen until an object travels at a significant fraction of the speed of light, but it does show up for something that many people use every day: their smart phones, for locating themselves on the planet's surface. The GPS system must use relativistic calculations; otherwise your position would be tens of yards (or meters) in error. Your smart phone directions would have you driving into brick walls or into a lake. Well, sometimes that does happen, but the error can be mostly attributed to human inattentiveness.  

I have made some relativistic example calculations to illustrate the lapsed time for space ships of various speeds to travel to our nearest galaxy (Andromeda) and back.  Andromeda is about 2.5 million light years away. In other words, light would require 5 million years to travel to Andromeda and return... at least that's the elapsed time we observers back on Earth would measure. If time is relativistic, however, what would be the elapsed time for our space traveler at these different speeds? It would be less, according to Einstein; how much less would be a function of how fast the ship traveled. To illustrate this, I have shown the elapsed time in the table below for a spaceship at five different speeds.

Spaceship speed	50,000 miles per hour	0.5c	0.9c	0.999c	C
Round trip time	35 billion years	4400 years	1260 years	120 years	Zero time

The first entry in the table is for a hypothetical spaceship whose speed is roughly comparable to today's spacecraft: it does the trip at 50,000 miles per hour (83,000 km per hour). To illustrate how slow this is, the trip would require some 35 billion years! Clearly, we must go faster.

For the second entry in the table, I assume a spaceship that can travel at half the speed of light (0.5C, where “c” is the scientific symbol used for light speed, which is 186,000 miles per second, or 300,000 km per second.) It will be a long time—if ever—before we'd reach that kind of speed. Nonetheless, for illustration purposes, the round trip to Andromeda would require 4,400 years for those aboard that ship, if they traveled at half the speed of light. That’s still a very long trip.

Let's say our imaginary ship could travel at 90% the speed of light (0.9c). Now the trip for those on board would be down to 1,260 years. Let's go even faster: to 99.9% the speed of light (0.999C). Then the trip could be finished in a mere 120 years.

For reasons I won't go into here, no real spacecraft could ever reach these speeds, despite the accomplishments of the starship USS Enterprise on “Star Trek,” which can reach warp speed eight—some eight times the speed of light! That's a fun way to fly around space, but is entirely fictional. Unfortunately, those interstellar distances will remain way beyond us mortals.

I've included one more interesting calculation in the table: the lapsed time to and from Andromeda Galaxy, for something that manages to travel right at the speed of light. (One of the consequences of Einstein's theory is that nothing can ever exceed the speed of light; it's an absolute upper bound.) For that light-speed trip, no time has passed at all! In fact, an object traveling at the speed of light can traverse the entire universe (and back, if it wishes) and never register any time lapse!

What kind of “thing” could travel at the speed of light? Well, light itself does, which we may describe as photons zinging along at c. Photons can do this only because they have no mass... they are completely immaterial. A consequence of  photons being massless is that they always are moving at the speed of light... they can exist only as moving particles.

So if you could ride along with a photon at the speed of light, you would in essence become immortal. Of course, your material being would never withstand the trip, but the massless photon can. So, for us material mortals back home, photons would require five million years for the round trip to Andromeda, but to them, they do it in no time at all.  That, it seems to me, is a definition of immortality.

As I pondered this fascinating result recently, it occurred to me that, while we material beings are mortal—often also described as being temporal, ephemeral, or perishable critters—some religions consider our souls to be immortal. If we do have a soul, it is immaterial; it is massless.

So a massless soul—like the massless photon—can only exist as something traveling at the speed of light. It could go on its merry way forever (that time lapse of “forever” being what we stationary mortals would measure), taking no time at all, from its perspective. Would that not be a definition of our soul being immortal?