Zero Point Field

A mind is something not content with stimulus-response, but must go flying off into the never lands to see if they are there... and when reporting back, at best is greeted with a stare of incredulity. But minds are stubborn things that go on processing both truth and doubt, and greeting fantasy as friend enough to squeeze it, probe it, love it with a clinical devotion plain romance would never understand. Of such a love as this is born the light that penetrates both time and space and bounces back into the consciousness of humankind and feisty lean bacteria forever bound in brotherhood. Pride is the casualty. The idiot savant may lead the Hawkings of the world into the wondrous places, those diaphanous and misty islands that their instruments could not disclose, that were in fact not even there until he thought of them and like a painter, sketched the trees, perfumed the air, and filled the surface crown with many-colored animals never seen before— and then with idiot delight might whisk it all away before their eyes. Not the stuff of fantasy, all this. We would endorse the cry of unity, accept the god of miracles, the triumph of a science leaping past his lordly heels, but this? To heal the sick by thinking back before their birth? To marry the millenia ahead with history? It is a bigger field on which we play, too much to entertain the day with less than breathless wonderment— to see beyond the window where the scientist and God rest finally from all the work that they have done. ~ *In order to fully understand this relatively simple poem, it is necessary to read "The Field" by Lynne McTaggart. Both the evidence and the speculation that she presents, is truly mind-boggling.