Through the math wormhole. I think, therefore I count

It seems like human society, maybe even the human brain, operates best when dealing with polarities, with opposites to offset one thing from another and give us a keen idea of what something is by knowing what, precisely, it is not.

But this seemingly pathological reliance on contrast to know something thoroughly can lead to false dichotomies, a pairing of things best considered alone simply for the sake of having some kind of comparison to make. Even if it’s wrong-headed.

One such coupling — much cited in these days of scientific naysayers and churlish, climate-change-challenged champions of industry who would rather boil in their own belly fat than admit humans may have caused the recent spike in global temperatures — lingers near the heart of an ongoing debate over what it means to be human, and moral (whatever that might mean).

Science versus the divine. God versus the Quanta. Creationism versus random happenstance in the petris dish of a primordial earth. Math versus The Word.

Obviously, not everyone sees these two subjects as quintessentially opposed. Many scientists, including Albert Einstein, don’t dismiss the possibility that a God or gods may exist, and in some way have an effect on what goes on here in the physical world. In fact, a through Internet search will quickly dig up the idea that scientists aren’t disproving God with every step they take toward ultimate truth.

Rather, they’re dutifully unveiling the mechanisms of the miracle. It’s like they’ve caught the hem of the Wizard’s curtain, and are slowly pulling it open to expose the divine cockpit, with brass levers and a glittering, gem-festooned control panel, to humanity. And God, according to this view, gave us the tools to conduct the search in the first place. He applauds every victory with a butterfly birth, mourns each defeat like The Fall all over again.

Saturday offered the world a kind of holiday for fans of science and math. The once-in-a-lifetime event was not one celebrated on cable news networks, and I doubt the Kardashians or TMZ did more than hold their average, humdrum yacht parties to celebrate.

Still, to me it was a big deal and reminded me of how math has at times launched me into realms previously undiscovered.

Pi Day. Saturday was March 14, 2015, 3.1415. Better yet, at just prior to half past 9 a.m., it was 3.141592653.

This assemblage of numbers of course is the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter — any circle — and it’s just one more example of the elegance at the heart of the universe, and how the language of math does such a magnificent job describing it.

Better yet, there’s more than just beauty to be found. There’s magic. Pi, you probably know, goes on and on into infinity and beyond (sorry, couldn’t resist). Yet in that ceaseless unfurling of digits, which could cover the planet in a 12-point typeface without breaking a sweat, there’s no repetition, and no patterning. Infinite is a big word, after all.

And while pi was the belle at Saturday’s ball, it’s far from the only example where elegance, and often stunning glimpses of beauty and order, emerge from what are supposedly random number sets. Times little old pi by two, and out comes it’s equally useful and pragmatic bigger sister, tau. Then there’s the mystery of the Golden Ratio, the predictive wonder of statistics, etc., etc., etc.

Learning math and science is a process of slowly being transformed, indoctrinated into humankind’s highest pursuit, that of truth in the face of wonder and fear. How many times over the centuries have things that at one time seemed so fraught with strange power and unpredictable ferocity been revealed through mathematic and scientific endeavor to be nothing more than the natural result of simple processes we can not only understand, but on some level predict, maybe even control?

So as a child grows and learns their first numbers, followed by the simplest of operations, even they get a sense that they are embarking on an almost holy rite of passage that may someday imbue them with power. Intellectual power — the kind that matters most.

In a smoke-filled living room on Pine Hill in the early 1980s, the Faulks were throwing a party. Brawny, T-shirted men told exaggerated tales of wilderness exploits, scratching at their thickly muscled forearms and occasionally wiping sweat off their flushed faces, cheeks now aching from all the laughs. They consider getting back in line to fill their styrofoam cups with yet more beer, but wait.

I was the shortest attendee at this party, and had mastered the vital skill of dodging drunken aunts and uncles as they took aimless steps backward and slapped and pinched at one another under the constant roar of unhushed Polish voices. As I remember, there were no bad drunks at this party, and I was riding high on a tide of adult laughter and unexpected silliness.

But the real source of my joy that night was my newly mastered skill. Every time a bleary-eyed relative made eye contact, I stood as tall as possible, heels together, and counted. Past 10, then 20, then 30, until I was scraping the edge of space with the height of my exploits. Before long, I had reached the triple digits, and best of all, could even keep going! I was a master of numbers, and thereby a master of the universe.

Fast forward 30 years, and I fell through a wormhole.

There I was, in 2014, trying hard to read my book and occupy the busy hands of our littlest child, when out of the ether of time and memory emerged a strangely female version of myself. Proud and victorious.

Before my eyes, my daughter Sophia began her own ascent of the mysteries and counted up through all the double digits, and into the hundreds. Her face too was flushed — with pride rather than alcohol — and I scooped her up high and tight in a clumsy hug, because I love her, but also because I understood what it meant to scrape the edge of the infinite with an endlessly awesome list of numbers.

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James Faulk is a writer, cemetery worker and family man. He can be reached at faulk.james@yahoo.com.