Hold Infinity in the Palm of Your Hand

To see a World in a grain of sand,
And a Heaven in a wild flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour.…

Auguries of Innocence, Wm.Blake 1757-1827

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Symmetry

A pedestrian event, indeed. I was merely eating dinner. At home no less, with a spouse too tired to leave the house or do much of anything but sleep in front of the basketball game. The simple garden vegetable on my plate resisted the process, by calling attention to its perfection and symmetry.
Meaning no harm, I posted a photo with no caption. Fascinated by things that grow, I do that sometimes. What a furor. I asked whether a scientist or mathematician could confirm whether my little broccoflower spear held within it the mystery of a Fibonacci number, as does a pinecone. Corrected, I now know that the formula which describes the formation of spirals in nature was is called a Fibonacci sequence.

I then asked whether this revelation might not “make theists of atheists, and atheists of theists.” Mistake. Or the most interesting conversation one could have with a diverse group of people. My attempt at making everyone right, “It doesn’t matter whether you call it God or nature,” did not cool matters, but enflamed the conversation. Those who are firm atheists were unmoved; those who are firm believers were incredulous at the inability of their peers to see meaning in nature’s perfection.

I have not returned to the conversation, but concluded that even we, who may not consider ourselves true believers, sometimes catch a glimpse of something more. Clearly I don’t believe the glimpse of something more must be transcendent, it can just as well, more likely in my worldview, be immanent. Yet, it is a glimpse of the extraordinary, the consummate, the perfectly miraculous. Tinker Bell flies by with her little lantern in hand, tiny wings frantically beating, and we catch a glimpse of the eternal. Or we don’t.

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One thought on “Hold Infinity in the Palm of Your Hand

  1. Alicia Butcher Ehrhardt

    I love that poem. With the right attitude, the orgy of color we’ve had lately is God’s paintbrush.

    Even if you know that cold brings death to the leaves, and they can no longer mask their colors with the green of life – Who put the color in there, under the green? Pooh on your atheists. I like my world better with a Maker. Else why does a chinchilla exist, with the softest fur on the planet, and her little beady eyes?

    Reply

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