How
often do you see things that are there but you can’t see them?
Like,
spider webs that appear only when you and sunlight are at perfect
angles to catch the web and reveal it.
Or,
when you’re outside at night, and there’s a star off to the side
of your vision, but when you adjust to look toward it, it disappears.
Scientifically,
in most cases we’re headed down the path of rods and cones. This
is something where the conversation could turn to photoreceptors.
All interesting, fascinating and amazing to think about, but not
really where I’m going. (And neither are the spider webs.)
What
I find curious is when you know something is there, can even catch
glimpses of it, but then what you would expect to be the very
best possible view provides nothing. It’s gone. Vanishes, and
maybe it never was.
How
do you feel about tangible and intangible?
I
still like buying my music in some physical form. I know things
are better today, but many years ago I lost a lot of music I had
stored digitally. I know others that have experienced the same.
Old habits are hard to break, and I’m going to shake my head and
shrug my shoulders when you talk about downloading and streaming.
Even though it isn’t a guarantee of the music being safe (or my
ability to play it), there’s something about having the CD in
my collection.
That
music example brings about one idea of tangible and intangible
for me. That either way, you could have something, and either
way you actually might not have something, but with the tangible
it relies less on perception.
Last
night I was walking in the yard. It was late, a bit after midnight,
and the skies were clear. Nearby lights around the neighborhood
were virtually all extinguished for the evening. Beautiful stuff.
I
sat down in a chair and began a bit of stargazing. I had missed
some recent overnights of traditional meteor shower activity,
and was hoping for a bit of a show anyway. The visuals were stunning,
peaceful, and I enjoyed it (though not a single shooting star).
While
our there, I kept sensing—kept seeing—a star off to the
left. Bright enough that it seemed to be the dominant star in
the area. The area I wasn’t looking toward. Every time I turned
my head, the star was gone.
I
told you the likely answer earlier. Rods and cones. Star is there.
Look in the right direction, the eyes get the light entering on
the proper angles, you can see the star.
Ever
seen a rainbow? Water and sunshine and your vantage point, glorious
display of color. Move even a foot and poof. (But then, move another
foot and possibly get a double rainbow.)
But
there I am, sitting in a chair, moving my head back and forth
in an almost wild attempt to force my eyes to see a star.
Every
so often, I wonder about stuff that isn’t there. Ok, it actually
is there, but for whatever reason, it isn’t. It’s out of reach.
Out of sight. And it feels as if having it outside my view might
mean it’s not there. It’s gone.
And
it worries me, at times for some things, to think I may never
have it again. (But I’ll keep reaching. I’ll keep looking. Because
once in a while, double rainbow.)