Uncertainty

I was walking over the weekend listening to an interview with a physicist about string theory, “super-symmetry,” and the meaning of life. To be honest, I didn’t understand most of what he was saying and I was only listening with half an ear to the podcast. It was a beautiful day and I got sidetracked when he started by noting the prevalence of symmetry in the natural world, but also the need for asymmetry. So, I was ambling along thinking asymmetrical thoughts, when I heard this line, “science does not permit us the illusion of certainty.” I stopped, did he say the illusion of “uncertainty” or “certainty”? Did he say “not permit” or “permit.” I had to rewind and listen again. No, I was right, “science does not permit us the illusion of certainty.” I puzzled over that for a minute then listened to what he said next. He pointed out that in science we always surround our answers by confidence intervals, we have a range of uncertainty about our measurements. We recognize that we aren’t going to be exact. Science accepts error, expects error, requires error. I guess I never thought of science in that way, the uncertainty side of it.


I’m someone who tends toward the logical and rational, who likes linear thought, answerable questions. I recognize that science and logic aren’t exactly the same, but, to me, the connections seem pretty strong. It was a new insight to think about how uncertainty and rationality can co-exist. I’ve certainly become more tolerant of uncertainty in my life, sometimes even able to embrace it—as in the old cliché “the journey is more important than the destination.”

                                        

Here I am!

Over the weekend I was watching 2.5 year old Clara while her parents went out to dinner.  She is at that stage of language development where she is still working on the use of pronouns; I, you, mine, yours.  She has it down pretty well, but there are still a lot of third person references, "Clara do it!"  It is interesting to watch her language development from this distance. As someone who sees her maybe once a week or so, it is easier for me to see the leaps in her skills, to be astounded by each new step.  And those strides in language come hand in hand with a growing sense of identity, of personal control and purpose.

We were playing a little game of hide and seek or peek-a-boo.  I was sitting on an ottoman in the middle of the room and she would stand behind me.  "Where's Clara?" she would ask.  I would look high and low, "Is Clara down here?  Is she up on the ceiling?"  As I pretended to search the room, looking around from my perch, she would jump out and with arms wide proclaim, "Here I am!"  If I continued to search, she would become more insistent, "Here I am! Here I am!" until I held my open and exclaimed, "Oh, there's Clara. There she is!"  She would fall into my arms, giggle, look up and ask, "Do it again?" Back behind me she would run and I searched again.

"Here I am."  What a strong sentence.  Look at me, see me, know that I exist.  But also, here I am, I am a person, an individual. I can control where I am, what I do, and how I think. I can be here, I can be there.  But right now, I am here and I want you to see me, find me.

It also reminds me of one of my favorite hymns, "Here I am, Lord."  I've always liked that one, the melody and the words. It has such a positive feel, I'm here, I'm ready, I'm willing.  In that sense, the sentence becomes "Here I am (for you)."  Now it is an offer, a statement of availability. I'm not here only as me, as an individual asking to be seen, but wanting to find you, too.