On Fingernails, Nipples and Who Cares

There are matters that we carry through life without ever questioning them, like, for instance, why do we have fingernails? Despite their questionable usefulness, they live on untouched by logic, experience or argument. They just are. It just doesn’t matter enough to urge us to contemplate them... existentially, that is.

When, if ever, was the last time you looked at those strange, almost bone-like tips to your fingers and wondered, “Why are they there?” Some of us may assume them to be simply an odd consequence of millions of years of evolution that somehow determined that land creatures survived best if their appendages had protective tips: hooves, claws, pads, toenails.

Fingernails are not critical for survival since we ceased to be hunters/gatherers when our defenses rested on the capability in our brains, limbs, torsos and appendages. Uses for fingernails have been devised of course, as in playing the harp or guitar, or nose-picking, but more generally they’re vestigial nuisances, like appendixes (appendices?) or men’s nipples. Dirt depositories.

Many of us grew up assuming that fingernails were simply a part of the essential human body, intelligently designed by an omniscient creator. Perhaps the design included fingernails because the creator foresaw the harp and the guitar. This reasoning (if we ever actually considered it) doesn’t really help to explain men’s nipples.

Others of us who went to school long enough to be challenged to think about such matters settled for a compromise: God created the life we’re living, and Darwin explained how he did it. (Note the “he” pronoun for God; shouldn’t it be he/she or… they?? I’m so confused!)

It’s snowing today, at least where I am. I know how snow develops from moisture in the atmosphere and that gravity causes it to fall to earth. Meteorologists know both that and weather phenomena to the point where they can predict when and where it will fall. John Doe has lived through 60 Saskatchewan winters and knows that a shovel is needed, and roads can be icy, and really, does he need to know much more?

The why and the how of things is that with which scientists, historians, philosophers, agronomists, etc., etc., grapple. But each in our own way, we do plenty of that as well. “Why is my left foot so itchy every night?” Or “What did I do to contract this itch in my left foot?” Quite possibly, the hypochondriacs among us may wonder, “What if it’s cancer and I lose my foot; what kind of future would that leave me?” Mostly we just scratch it, yawn and go to sleep.

Two things: 1) You can’t relive, can’t even revisit the past and 2) you can’t “test pilot” the future to see if you’ll like it. You can, however, find well-being, even happiness to the extent that your health and means allow it, even if you’re flummoxed by the meaning of your life or why your sweater is chafing the nipples you absolutely never needed.

For now, some of us choose to wonder less about the whys and the hows of the big questions. Instead, we clip our nails regularly and clean them as necessary, neither evolutionists nor creationists exempted.

               Some of us paint them.

NAICA  gg.epp41@gmail.com

 

 

Humans are: a) Gods, b) highly evolved vegetation, c) swine, d) none of the above

The view from Helen's apartment - January 26, 2009

I was traveling to and from the landfill yesterday, discarding scraps of lumber and accumulated sawdust and garbage, and listening with one ear to Sheila Rogers’ interview with some person whose name I didn’t get because the conversation took longer than the garbage run. His points—as far as I could gather—included that:
1) we humans pretend to be in conscientious control of our environment, responsible caretakers of the earth, when actually, we are raping and pillaging the earth like rampaging morons, and that as a result,
2) life on earth will eventually (maybe shortly) discard us and life will go on without us so that,
3) the earth and its other inhabitants will be happy to see us go.

In 1920, poet Sara Teasdale wrote:



There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,


And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;





And frogs in the pool singing at night,


And wild plum trees in tremulous white;





Robins will wear their feathery fire,


Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;





And not one will know of the war,


not one will care at last when it is done.





Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,


If mankind perished utterly;





And Spring herself when she woke at dawn


Would scarcely know that we were gone.



Ray Bradbury based a short story called “There will Come Soft Rains”on Teasdale’s poem, a story in which “mankind perishe[s] utterly” in a nuclear war. A recent TV documentary explored the restricted area around Chernobyl, and quite astoundingly discovered that animal and vegetable life was thriving there; the abandoned animals had gone feral and were doing well despite the high levels of radiation in the food chain.



The Biblical record tells us that the Children of Israel repeatedly strayed from the presence of the Creator and went their own way. A condensation of this oft-repeated story might be that such straying always leads to destruction and sorrow. We do well to pay heed to the prophetic voices warning us that we must humble ourselves before the creator and pay attention to the prophets of our time: Sara Teasdale, Ray Bradbury, David Suzuki, Al Gore, and the many in my church—the Mennonite Church—who have warned us that earth-care is people-care and that we can’t please our creator by pillaging his creation.



Most of us—I expect—live daily with what’s called “cognitive dissonance,” the stress that results from believing one thing and doing another. I was determined to disassemble the four palettes lying on my yard from construction and recycle the wood (good thing) but they were so stubbornly nailed together (bad thing) that I gave that up (bad thing) and hurled them all into the pit at the landfill (bad thing) where they will be burned (really bad thing), releasing a great deal of carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide and fly ash into the atmosphere (unforgivably bad thing). I am feeling really dissonant—cognitively—as a result.



Another word for this feeling is, of course, “guilty.”

Creation is now

encordat

There’s evidence that humankind as we now see it—on the streets, in the stands at football games, in the pews on a Sunday morning—is an evolving life form. Imagine trying to explain the workings of an Ipod to a Neanderthal or early Homo Sapien, watching him scratch his head with a hairy finger. Our average size and our brain capacity have been increasing gradually over the nearly 200,000 years of our [Homo Sapien] presence on earth.

Normally—when you can see where a phenomenon began and how it has progressed—you can make a tentative prediction on where it is headed. If we begin with a man in a cave with a club and spear, cowering against the cold under animal hides, and track the progression in sophistication to the moon landing of Neil Armstrong, what is the potential in humankind given another 100,000 years of evolution? (This assumes, of course, that there won’t be an extinction event meanwhile.) Will the moon rocket and the Ipod appear as primitive to future humans as club and spear do to us?

Whatever the nature and physical structure of humans in the future, it’s not a big leap to the assertion that he/she is currently being created. Obviously, then, we represent a stage in that creation, and not an end-point. We are, we would hope, co-creators of a better human, one who can finally grasp the futility of material accumulation and warfare, who lives the codependence of all of the Creator’s creatures, and with the skills necessary to manage the earth’s resources so that all are beneficiaries of her largesse. One who possesses a Creator consciousness, is imbued with the “Holy Spirit.”

We are either co-creators with The Creator, consumers simply feeding on what’s been provided, or vandals wrecking and wasting what has been achieved so far. And if we can’t grasp the big picture yet, we ought at least to recognize the creative role we play vis-à-vis our children . . . and their futures.