This winter, I was again struck by how beautiful a great snowfall can be. At worst, a big snow is an inconvenience because it makes it hard to move around. But my life is such that moving about is an option I gladly exploit. When the weather is particularly bad, even my employer cancels work but pays me anyway. And with a very short driveway, shoveling is not only manageable but a welcomed opportunity for exercise.
One realization about snow this year was that its beauty has no purpose. Unlike biological phenomena such as bright flowers, beauty from non-living sources cannot be explained as due to evolutionary forces. Why then does snow exist? It falls with grace, it obscures the dullness of winter, and it offers such delightful recreation. But the reason for snow cannot be explained by the same tropes we use in biology. There are no adaptive benefits to snow’s softness or brightness.
I can excuse non-biologists for believing in a higher purpose. As long as I mainly attend to phenomena such as migration or photosynthesis or sugary fruits, evolutionary processes are sufficient for me to explain nature without resorting to faith. How much harder it must be for physical scientists to find similar purpose in the phenomena that are enchanting to their eyes. For this reason, I can appreciate how religious beliefs have emerged and also why they continue to hold such powerful forces for people even as many of us will privately confess to having lost our religion.
Indoors, this day was not especially different from other Sundays in our house. True, a chocolate bunny appeared on the coffee table and the radio announcer reported that the Pope gave a special service at St Peter’s. Otherwise, it could be any Sunday. Yesterday, the weather was grim: chilly, rainy and gray. I
did a quick run to the local dump to toss bags of dead leaves onto the humongous compost pile. It was misty and smelly and depressing. But out doors, today is not only a complete contrast but is so spectacular it is almost miraculous. Bulbs I shoved into the cold autumn dirt have arisen, transformed into sunny tulips. A hops vine I thought I had transplanted resurrects itself in the place where it once suffered from a lack of sunlight and attention. The air has heft and caresses and squeezes rather than piercing or pricking exposed flesh. We check with amazement each morning to see the lilac outside the kitchen window, first with buds, then with incipient leaves, and now floral clumps with a slightly purple haze. Walt Whitman famously noted the memories evoked by lilac blooms:
One realization about snow this year was that its beauty has no purpose. Unlike biological phenomena such as bright flowers, beauty from non-living sources cannot be explained as due to evolutionary forces. Why then does snow exist? It falls with grace, it obscures the dullness of winter, and it offers such delightful recreation. But the reason for snow cannot be explained by the same tropes we use in biology. There are no adaptive benefits to snow’s softness or brightness.
I can excuse non-biologists for believing in a higher purpose. As long as I mainly attend to phenomena such as migration or photosynthesis or sugary fruits, evolutionary processes are sufficient for me to explain nature without resorting to faith. How much harder it must be for physical scientists to find similar purpose in the phenomena that are enchanting to their eyes. For this reason, I can appreciate how religious beliefs have emerged and also why they continue to hold such powerful forces for people even as many of us will privately confess to having lost our religion.
Indoors, this day was not especially different from other Sundays in our house. True, a chocolate bunny appeared on the coffee table and the radio announcer reported that the Pope gave a special service at St Peter’s. Otherwise, it could be any Sunday. Yesterday, the weather was grim: chilly, rainy and gray. I
did a quick run to the local dump to toss bags of dead leaves onto the humongous compost pile. It was misty and smelly and depressing. But out doors, today is not only a complete contrast but is so spectacular it is almost miraculous. Bulbs I shoved into the cold autumn dirt have arisen, transformed into sunny tulips. A hops vine I thought I had transplanted resurrects itself in the place where it once suffered from a lack of sunlight and attention. The air has heft and caresses and squeezes rather than piercing or pricking exposed flesh. We check with amazement each morning to see the lilac outside the kitchen window, first with buds, then with incipient leaves, and now floral clumps with a slightly purple haze. Walt Whitman famously noted the memories evoked by lilac blooms:In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash’d palings,It is all quite astonishing, not at all diminished by a knowledge of biological processes. Without theories and facts, days like today would not surprisingly cause people to believe that mystical forces are at play. I respect that even though it no longer works for me. Pagans, priests and poets have much to celebrate on days like today.
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle …
