the objective observer

At the Sunstone West conference in Cupertino on Saturday, I felt like a bit of an outsider. 

It was my first time attending a Sunstone event, and unlike any number of the other people there, I am neither a scholar of church history nor a Mormon artist nor a particularly vocal dissident nor a visible participant in the Bloggernacle. While FoxyJ and Th. happily got to meet the people behind some of the big names in the Mormon blogosphere (who were in turn delighted to meet them), I watched from the sidelines.

That's not to say that I felt out of place. I felt comfortable in the company of intelligent and inquisitive people representing a wide range of wavelengths on the spectrum of Mormon-ness. I walked away from the conference with the sense that there is room in the church for heterodoxy in an infinite number of iterations: there is a place for everyone.

While I was a bit disheartened by the fact that many participants are no longer active Mormons (some never were but are just interested in the curiosities of Mormon history & doctrine), I was however put at ease by the fact that I witnessed no hostility. As far as I could tell, everyone there was very respectful, there for no malicious purpose but rather for personal enrichment and to exchange ideas and connect with other people (which, if you've been here before, you'll know is a pet theme of mine): unique individuals with beautiful minds, sharing and comparing the elements mined from our common ground. And then I was all the more encouraged to find active Mormons who have not only successfully reconciled their membership in the church with unconventional views and interests in other traditions, but have managed to integrate them in sort of spectacular ways.

When I briefed my mom on the conference, she said she imagined that talks by non-Mormons would probably be more interesting because the presenters ought to be disinterested personally. I think what she meant is that their views would likely be more objective than those of people formally affiliated with the church, which may or may not be true. I'm inclined to say that a purely objective point of view does not exist. Anyway, I've found that the more obviously "subjective" presentations are indeed more interesting precisely because they have personal implications. Theory and history and math and science are necessary, but as far as I'm/we're concerned, they are missing something until they are applied and understood in the context of the human condition.

Highlights from the day include a panel on personal spiritual journeys (away from, back to, parallel to, and interweaving with Mormonism), Th.'s "Saturday's Werewolf" paper (which I thoroughly enjoyed even though I've neither read the Twilight books nor watched Saturday's Warrior), House of Falafel falafel, a series of NPR-inspired "This I Believe" segments, and the excellent documentary film The Constant Process (read here the article that appeared in February on the front page of the LA Times).

In Saturday morning's discussion of neuroplasticity and quantum dynamics (with the intention being to explain how people can change their behavior), the presenters cited the observer effect as it relates to the Heisenberg uncertainty principle. Don't ask me to explain it (at least not at 4 a.m.), but their point was that the observer's desire can determine the outcome of the experiment—he will find what he wants to observe. I think it's not really as simple and mystifying as they made it sound, and in that sense I don't really buy it (i.e., it may have more to do with measurement technique than anything else, and I'm not a quantum physicist so I don't really get it). But still, it raises the question: is it possible to remove that desire for a particular outcome, becoming a truly objective observer? When I go to church with a bad attitude (though not so bad that it kept me at home altogether), does that become self-fulfilling prophecy, my experience confirming my doubts and sending me off after sacrament meeting because I "wasn't really feeling it" (from the moment I arrived, or even before)? Can I ever be entirely stripped of self-interest in my interactions with the world and the people around me? 

Yesterday I rode my bike to church and sat alone in the corner. Some days I might be more willing to break out of my shell and participate more actively, but yesterday was one of those when I wanted only to watch and listen, to observe unobserved. Also, to render a sketch inspired by a scene from the previous night/morning's dreams.

On my way home, my skirt got caught in the spokes of my back wheel. My white skirt. Lessons learned: (1) flowy fabrics and spinning wheels should be mingled with great care, (2) stain remover is my friend, (3) bike shorts may be a smart addition to my wardrobe, and (4) had I actually crashed, I'd be grateful to find several friendly Palo Altans out for a two-wheeled spin on a sunny-Sunday afternoon who, far from being cold objective observers, would, I believe, be happy to help me up, ask me if I were okay, call a medic, and/or laugh with me at my humiliating stupidity, as appropriate. 

who says scientists don't have a sense of humor?

An article in today's New York Times features the issue of glacial melt in Greenland. Snowmelt drains into natural "pipes" which they call moulins (who knows why?), and glaciologists are trying to map this plumbing system with a specially-designed camera. As I read the article at the bus stop, I laughed out loud at this:

Alberto Behar, a NASA engineer who designed the camera, said some unconventional methods were being considered to chart the flow of such water. “We had ideas to send rubber ducks down and see if they pop out in the ocean,” he said. “They’d have a little note saying, ‘Please call this number if you find me.’”

Part of me really wishes that they had tried that first.

there she goes a-wanderlusting again

Claire gave me a wonderful book for Christmas: A Year in the World: Journeys of a Passionate Traveller by Frances Mayes. (If that name sounds familiar, that's probably because she also wrote Under the Tuscan Sun.) By now I am pretty much dying to go to Portugal, and I would just love to go back to Andalucía, this time taking it in at my own leisurely pace and without thirty American students as traveling companions. Only Portugal and Andalucía? you may ask. Well, those are the only two chapters I have read so far. I suspect that, by the end of the book, I will be dreaming also of Scotland and Turkey and Morocco and all the other marvelous places that will just be begging me to visit them once I have glimpsed their beauty and unique vitality in Mayes' descriptions and narratives.

My latest musical obsession is Sigur Rós. Unfortunately, I did not stick with my Icelandic class last semester, so I do not understand their lyrics or song titles. I don't even know how to pronounce their name. Sometimes I like to think of it as "sugar rush", though I know that is not quite right. There is a song of theirs called "Ný Batterí", which I often refer to as "new battery". I hope that that does not offend them. Anyway, I really like their music. You probably know that I like Björk's music a lot, and you may or may not know of my affinity for Emiliana Torrini's. Years ago I enjoyed reading Jules Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth, and I have long been fascinated by geothermal phenomena. Basically, what I am trying to say is that I think that I would like Iceland. A lot. Like maybe enough to live there for a while?

Have you seen the indexed blog? If not, then you should. The boiled-down diagrams are clever, witty, understated, and often spot-on. I particularly liked this recent post. I have a passport; the question is, do I have enough of the other two?

notes from sunday school

A few weeks ago I found myself drawing diagrams in my notebook during Sunday school. It was right after Thanksgiving, and the teacher had opened the lesson by inviting a handful of volunteers to share something that they were grateful for. It was a lovely day, and the first thing that came to mind was that I was grateful for sunshine and blue skies. I did not raise my hand to share this, because immediately my mind began following the intricate paths that every once in a while lead it to something fruitful. It went like this: I started thinking about why I am grateful for sunshine and blue skies. First came the obvious: sunshine means light and warmth, which not only allow us to see and keep us from freezing, but also help plants to grow. The sun is the ultimate life preserver, as far as our physical world goes. Blue skies are a little more difficult, since there is nothing inherent in them that keeps us alive. I do, however, find some sort of inarticulable inspiration in their color and depth. Additionally, I am one of those people whose emotions happen to be rather closely tied to atmospheric conditions. Several rainy days or long periods of cloud cover can get me pretty low. This is why I must not move somewhere like Seattle or Ithaca. On the other hand, when I am feeling a little off, sometimes a bright, blue, sunshiny day is enough to put a smile on my face.

Soon I was looking for more specific reasons as to why I find something so simple as a sunny day so wonderful. Where does this joy, that seems to be encapsulated in a sun-brightened, endless blue sky, come from? It occurred to me that, ultimately, it must come from God, since He created the sky and the sun. My mind then journeyed back to Cusco, where I sat in class one morning in June of this year and, when asked something about the difference between traditional Andean polytheism and Judeo-Christian monotheism, I replied that, in a way, I did not find them all that different. Indigenous beliefs in the Andean region hold natural elements like the sun (inti), the moon (quilla), and the mountains (apus) to be gods. In a strict monothestic view, worship of a mountain, for instance, would be considered idolatry. Without going so far as addressing prayers to Mother Earth (Pachamama), however, I believe that we can and ought to recognize the mark of divinity in the mountains, the forests, the stars, in the earth and the sky themselves. When I gaze at the snowcapped Wasatch mountains while I wait at the bus stop, I see God, because those mountains are a product of His creative power. I tried to express this to my teacher, but I had not sufficient time to adequately articulate the thoughts that were forming just then. Although I think that she got the gist of it, I was still unsatisfied with my incomplete explanation.

Months later, in a Sunday school classroom in Provo, it somehow became clear how I might illustrate what I had been trying to say: why immanence makes sense to me. So this is what I drew in my notebook:



As I was thinking more on this topic, this Book of Mormon scripture was recalled to my mind:

But Alma said unto him: Thou hast had signs enough; will ye tempt your God? Will ye say, Show unto me a sign, when ye have the testimony of all these thy brethren, and also all the holy prophets? The scriptures are laid before thee, yea, and all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator. (Alma 30:44, emphasis added)

I remember teaching this section in gospel doctrine class during the summer after my freshman year at BYU, and while preparing for the lesson I had scribbled in my notes "organic chemistry denotes that there is a God." Which reminds me of a time earlier this year when that same notebook where I drew those diagrams you see above, was witness to some musings of mine about organic chemistry and syntax trees. Maybe another day I'll post that one.