The Zen of Science (not to be confused with the Science of Zen)

I'm in Oregon now, and it smells so different here--like raw life, unabashed and unafraid, extravagantly green. There are beautiful bell peppers in the fridge, and the sunshine is playful and light. This morning I just wandered around the rooms in my house and in between memories, my cat in my arms. When I buried my nose in his fur he smelled faintly of woodsmoke, just like always.

I left Port Aransas yesterday, and I'm still lingering in that psychological transition state that's neither here nor there, but decidedly in between. Of late my life has seemed to consist of discrete segments: ten weeks at Carleton, eight weeks in Port Aransas, and now exactly a month in Eugene. It feels like the time to lay a giant question mark over the Texas bit.

"Crab Counting and the Controversy of the Canal: A preliminary assessment of larval recruitment in the Aransas Ship Channel." That was the title of my project (I couldn't help but alliterate). I read untold papers, built megalopae collectors, tried to make them catch crablets, counted ocean bugs, taught myself statistical analysis, wrote an abstract, and then gave a 20 minute presentation to real scientists. I read a lot, too, and watched birds. And now I'm home.

?

I can tell you right now that I don't see myself with a future in research. I, personally, would go crazier than I already am if my professional purpose dealt exclusively with middle-phase larval crabs drifting in tidal currents. Nonetheless, something odd transpired in Texas, something valuable, something that I have trouble articulating.

In Leaves of Grass, Whitman mentions a state wherein one is "both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it." This may begin to describe my Texan impressions. I didn't experience unabashed glee, per se, but the last two months of my life were permeated by an inexplicable sense of contentment that was, paradoxically, both distant and entirely present. Even though I can mention several reasons why Port Aransas might have been a hostile Caitlin environment, I could be found swinging my crab-buckets merrily as I hummed through the laboratory, and on certain evenings when I was riding my bicycle I felt as though, somehow, my wheels were perfectly in tune with the earth's orbit. Every day I laughed at myself (or perhaps more appropriately, with myself).

And thus, as ambivalent as I may be about Texas in general, it's a part of me now. I can perfectly imagine the stench of sargassum seaweed on the beach, and I can identify at least ten species of shorebirds in Port A. I have amazing dexterity with tweezers under a dissecting scope, and I dare you to ask me something about Microsoft Power Point that I can't answer. I better understand how scientists think, and I discovered that I can even pull off a research project, but I know now that the niche of pure science is one that I could never fill.

So did the "scientist" shoes leave blisters? No, I don't think so--they were fun to try on. My feet are a little cramped, however, and I'm elated to be running around barefoot for a while.

Organizing Gregory

All of the other REU students have fled this premises, but I have two more days left in Port A, and I have resolved not to be bored. One thing I've set out to do is organize Gregory.

Gregory is my external hard drive, and he contains every file I possess. I trust my old iBook about as far as it can sail across the ship channel, so Gregory is my Steadfast Protector of Data. The one problem, however, is that I've uploaded files onto him completely at random. If I want to find something important in his buzzing innards, my chances of finding it in a reasonable amount of time are practically nil, especially considering that I tend to give files names like "bladeehoo" or "thispapersucks.doc." Thus the need for organization.

Below I've copied an interesting document I just found under the title "wordswords.doc." It's one of the first assigned journal entries I wrote when I was in Egypt.

Stay tuned for the next 48 hours. Since I have so very little to do, I may very well revisit this blog, and perhaps even reflect on Science, which is what I've been doing for the past two months.


Some Ruminations on Language

"The Tale of the Eloquent Peasant" is a fascinating and somewhat surprising read for a novice Egyptologist such as myself. The story of how a lowly peasant gains respect and justice through his beautiful eloquence provides insight into a culture millennia past, and, in turn, raises many questions: What are the social and political implications of this story, which so obviously empowers the masses? How much of its message is magisterial propaganda? What does this tale have to say about the mysterious gift of language?

As I consider which question I should address, my eyes play over a manufactured oasis that is glorious despite its garishness. The swimming pool glints coyly, and the sun is warm on my back. In this setting that embodies a languid academic spirit that is all but extinct, I think that I will address the question of language, which, to me, has always been an enticing thing to ponder.

"The Tale of the Eloquent Peasant," along with many other primary sources from ancient Egypt, suggests that, in a sense, Egyptians revered language itself. In "The Tale of the Eloquent Peasant," the power of mere words elevate a peon in the eyes of a king. When His Majesty hears of the peasant's fantastic use of language, the king commands the Chief Steward, "And so that [the peasant] may keep on speaking, remain silent"(30). Aside from this tale, various versions of ancient Egyptian creation myths give language an element of divine importance. For example, there is a myth in which Ptah creates the universe with his mouth (the original source of language). When the creation was complete, Ptah was "satisfied after he had made all things and all divine words"(55). My experience wandering though the ancient tombs of Luxor also suggested that language was of special importance to the Egyptians—seemingly endless hieroglyphs covered the walls of the passageways.

As I explored the tombs at the Valley of the Kings, surrounded by what might be humanity's first calligraphy, I couldn't help but draw parallels between that ancient script and the elegant Arabic writing adorning the walls of mosques I've toured in Cairo. It's clear from the parallel architectural flourishes on Egyptian tombs and Muslim architecture that language also plays a prominent role in the Islamic faith, but from what I've learned, it seems that Muslims think of language differently. According to Carl Ernst, author of Following Muhammad: Rethinking Islam in the Contemporary World, Arabic is a"sacred language" because "Muslims continue to use the original language of their revelation"(102). This statement suggests that,while ancient Egyptian religion and Islam are similar in that language is of special importance, the prominence of language in the Islamic tradition is due to the fact that Allah ultimately gave his message in language form (specifically in Arabic). Egyptians, on the other hand,attributed an intrinsic value to the faculty of language.

It's interesting to think that I can make claims about the Ancient Egyptian perspective on language from the scattered historical documents at my disposal. As I began to research the Narmer Palette for my final presentation, for example, I read several assertions from various Egyptologists that even the scholarly vision of Ancient Egypt is largely a product of imagination. So much of my learning thus far in Egypt has entailed sifting through contradictory opinions and stereotypes… One thing that I read particularly struck me, however: an scholar claimed that the study of Ancient Egypt is valuable because it brings to light what is essentially human. In other words, the parallels that emerge between Ancient Egypt, other cultures of antiquity, and modern society tell us invaluable things about ourselves as biological, sentient creatures.

Thus I return to the subject of language. Although ancient Egyptian religion and Islam seem to treat language differently, language is of fundamental importance to both. The fact that language seems to be tied inextricably into the fabric of religion is not surprising if one views religion as a complex system of symbols, and language as the culmination of symbolic thought.

Is this inclination for religious and linguistic exploration an innate part of being human? The fact that language and religion exist across cultural, geographic, and chronological boundaries suggests that this is the case. Words and gods are related: human beings, who are different from animals and plants in that our consciousness constructs rational barriers between our minds and the universe, struggle to process an infinite experience through symbolic systems like religion and language. This is why language endows the eloquent peasant with special privileges, this is why Ptah spat the universe from his mouth, and this is why gold-gilded Arabic calligraphy shines from mosque walls.

Of course we are doomed to fail. We are finite beings attempting to condense infinity into abstract and equally finite terms. As the Sufi poet Rumi states, "Silence is the language of God. All else is poor translation." And yet we try, through prayers and poems, because that is the nature of the human condition.

The sun is setting over the courtyard now, winking greenly through the foliage. I'm afraid that I've been "long-winded and long-winding," in the spirit of Apuleius, but it's not that surprising. Egypt has made me think. Something about all the contradiction amid all this living history has provoked my musings to rove from the "Eloquent Peasant" to the very structure of the mind. And here they are now, written in ink, for I am human after all.

Figure 1. Crazy Grackle Lady Correlates Positively with Insignificance

So my favorite pants are missing very important butt elements. This has been a source of of major concern for me over the course of the past few weeks, but today, without warning, a singularly bizarre solution presented itself.

I was biking down Alister street as I am wont to do during my weekly Grapefruit Mission, and I passed a small hovel-like shop that I had never noticed before. "Port Island Seamstress" was emblazoned across a single, curtained window in red paint. A sign on the doorknob was flipped to "open." Interesting, I thought, my prayers have been answered... After a hasty pedal to Dorm A to retrieve my poor pants, I was nudging open the door of this peculiar shack.

The inside of this seamstress shop was unlike anything that actually occurs in real life. Shirts, sheets, slacks, pajamas, sofa covers--all of these things and more were literally piled from the floor to the ceiling of a room so small it felt like it was built for hobbits. A white wire cage contained two parakeets in the far corner.

A severely pregnant blond was stitching something lacy by the door, and a frog-like old woman sat hunched by an expensive looking computer, engrossed in a telephone conversation. She was surrounded by stray papers and the ever-present clothing explosion. I thought I could even discern a pinafore.

"She'll be with you in a minute," said the pregnant lady, "Would you like to hold Jeremy? My boyfriend saved him." Jeremy was a baby grackle, perched on the windowsill. He was awkwardly half-fluff, half feather, and too much leg.

I reached out a hand toward Jeremy, but he must have sensed my hesitation, because he fled. "The ceiling fan!!!" shouted the pregnant lady as she heaved herself from her chair.

And thus I found myself practicing Grackle Reconnaissance in a cluttered hobbit hole somewhere on the Gulf Coast. And I even gave them my pants.

In other news, I have to give my final presentation tomorrow. Earlier today I e-mailed my power point file and the outline of what I'm planning to say to my mentor professor, and he stopped by my office half an hour later with one piece of feedback: "Rather than saying that your results are insignificant, Caitlin, I think it might be more technically appropriate to say that they are non-significant."

Thanks, Ed.