hu•man•i•tar•i•um noun 1a. a place in which the whole of our humanity may be viewed in a loving and compassionate manner. 1b. humanity as so viewed: with feelings of love he beheld all lives as one humanitarium.
Life is a Garden as Galaxies are Flowers
One removes one’s shoes before entering, for here no artificial sole shall tread. The bare feet shall feel only the grass, the dirt, the concrete, the hard scrabble, the sand, the asphalt; the bare feet shall feel only the world as it is upon entering. Once inside, there are couches to recline on, so that one may gaze up and around at the space above. It is empty space, at first. This is important.
It’s important because one must be reminded that first there was nothing, nothingness, not-even-nothing. This emptiness represents (re-presents) the unconsciousness that came before life found conscious awareness.
The first sign of anything is a vague blur of darkness moving in darkness. Images flicker in near-infrared across the void, hardly to be perceived, more to be felt, groped at by the mind as it attempts to make sense of what it feels it’s almost seeing. There is a dim perception, a half-notion, that the movement is becoming more purposeful. Geometric structures seem to float by, losing themselves in clouds of obscurity before leaving a solid impression.
But slowly, steadily, points of light become known. One is thrilled by them, welcomes them, wants them to grow brighter, feels lighter as they slowly do just that. And as they do, they take on patterns. Or, rather, the mind begins to connect the dots, begins to see structure and form develop out of their initially haphazard appearances.
These structures are familiar to us nowadays. They are galaxies, galaxy clusters, nebulae and nurseries. Yet they are not these things. They are human beings seen from a far enough remove that seldom can an individual be made out. They are societies, peoples, tribes and kingdoms and countries.
They are beautiful.
But as this universe of humanity evolves there are scenes that also give fright. Stellar conflagrations on a massive scale: galaxies colliding with galaxies; great stars bursting and disappearing; waves of stars fading almost as soon as they have thrown their first light. Unlike the universe above, the human universe is more chaotic and events move more quickly. Also, all human stars or the remains of human stars eventually make their way to the center of the human universe. For there resides the great annihilator. All that is born is destined to eventually arrive there and disappear down the insatiable throat of the supermassive black hole: death. That is our end.
But it is known that no information can be destroyed. And as any one is pulled inexorably into the final spiral of existence, there is that which escapes (for however long, no one knows). Memories, letters, books, artwork, photographs, music, histories; we see them shed into the greater universe. There is always that which remains. And from those whose brilliance shone for a time, brighter than a billion others, others seem to gain in brightness.
One gazes at these scenes and is filled with wonder. Where terrible struggles, endured and perdured, seem in their gravity to be ineluctable tragedies beyond hope of any good outcome, yet there comes afterward a time of new building, new structuring, new activity. One sees that humanity goes on.
All that space in which humanity’s light stands out… How could it be that we would mistake it for naught? Bounded by laws yet almost boundless in potential… How could it be that we would think it pointless? As we gaze up and around at the great stage of human existence, see how we struggled into light and see how we struggle to stay alight, we see another facet of our own, personal, existence. In the dim, unknowable past there was a moment when first some ancestor of ours realized, for the very first time, that she or he existed. That sense was the most profound happening, surely. One can imagine her looking down at her own hands and flexing her fingers, turning her palm up, turning her palm down, and processing the realization that there she was, herself, alive.
In the humanitarium, these romantic thoughts may bear real fruit. Life is a struggle for existence. Life is so brief. Yet it is replete with possibilities to realize that it all matters, as much as we can make it matter. And to realize this for oneself is, in any healthy mind, the harbinger of that clarion call to help others toward that same realization. (How could one sleep unaware, child of the mountains or no?) What need must be fulfilled for us to admit that in our short lives there is nothing better or more important than bettering life for all—that it is the most worthy goal? Just look at all those stars! Look at us. See that, even rounded with a sleep, it is a beautiful pageant. Even in its sadness and tragedy, its foolishness and failures, there is an enduring, perduring, center of meaning that each successive generation lends its voices to for good or ill. Something so remarkable, so astounding as the fact that we are alive and able to see ourselves and this universe… How could I not want with all of me to give my joy to others?
And after one has arisen and walked back along the way, put back on one’s shoes and listened to the near-silent click of the doors as they close, it often occurs to one that there is no way (and no desire) to look at humanity the same way again. We are all a part of a dance that transcends us and makes us. When we are gone, it will be done, save that it likely would be carried on elsewhere by some others we know not. But there is only one humanity, and we are it.
It’s true that the analogy only goes so far, but as far as it goes it’s a good one for me. What do you think?
